


Ser Jon, Lord of Castamere

by stevem1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevem1/pseuds/stevem1
Summary: AU.  Robert Baratheon did not marry Cersei Lannister.  He married Lysa Tully when Lyanna was found dead.  When the king travels to Winterfell to ask Ned Stark to serve as his Hand, Jaime Lannister recognizes some of Rhaegar’s features in Jon.  He enlists Tyrion to help him convince Jon to not go to the Wall and make something of his life.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Joy Hill/Jon Snow
Comments: 460
Kudos: 325





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. I’m only borrowing some of his characters and settings to practice fiction writing. This fanfiction story is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.

AN: This story will be very AU in part and sticks to canon in others. One change is that I’ve stretched the action out to cover six or seven years or so instead of three or four. (As I didn’t put it in earlier, mea culpa, Joy is a year younger her than Jon in this AU. I aged her up) 

SJ SJ SJ

Jon Snow stood silently off to the side as his father said his goodbyes. King Robert and the royal entourage had left an hour past but would travel slowly, restrained as they were by the Queen’s wheelhouse. Lord Eddard Stark and his hundred mounted swords should catch them up quickly.

His father’s face appeared carved in stone as he kissed Lady Catelyn’s brow. “Be well, wife,” he whispered, his voice thick with grief that his face refused to betray.

Lady Catelyn's eyes were red and face puffy from tears, but her head was high and back straight as she returned her husband’s kiss with one on the check. “And you also, husband. Return to me as soon as your duty is complete, Ned.” Her voice cracked in barely suppressed emotion.

He nodded abruptly and then moved to his heir, Robb. Jon saw the anger and self-loathing that danced in his brother’s eyes. 

Bran’s death had hit the family hard. They all blamed themselves for his fall. They’d not minded him as well as they should, they’d indulged him, they’d grown too confident in his ability to climb. Brandon Stark never fell. Until he did. 

Now his brave, bright eyed brother of seven years would never be a knight. He would never travel south and be a page for the king, as intended. He’d never live the adventures that had captured his dreams. Instead, his small cold body was interred in the crypts of his ancestors.

“Robb, I leave Winterfell and the North to your care. Keep our people and our family safe,” his father said sternly. He would not let sorrow keep him from his duty nor allow his son to falter in his.

Lord Stark was well used to death, Jon knew. Seventeen years ago he and Robert, his sworn brother, led by Jon Arryn, their foster father, had called their banners south. Lord Stark to avenge the deaths of his father and brother, and avenge the rape and later death of his sister, who was Robert’s betrothed. The Mad King had killed Jon Arryn’s nephew and demanded he bring him the heads of his foster sons, which he refused. They’d brought war to Westeros, killed a prince and cast down a king. 

And they’d raised another in his place. Robert Baratheon, Lord Stark’s sworn brother and later brother by marriage. It was thought that they should have been brothers if not for Lyanna’s death, and so they two became brothers through their marriages to the daughters of Hoster Tully. 

Now Jon Arryn was dead and King Robert demanded that his dearest friend, his brother in all but blood, travel south and serve as the King’s Hand. Eddard Stark being the man he was, the death of a son would not deter him from fulfilling his duty.

“I will, father,” Robb responded stoically. Jon wasn’t fooled by his brother’s grim face. Inside, he knew he raged against the injustice of Bran’s death and cursed the gods, old and new.

His father rested his hand on Robb’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know you will, son.”

His father turned to Arya, his youngest daughter. Her face was wooden and her eyes as hard as flint. She stood silently and refused to meet their father’s eyes or respond when he tried to speak to her. She did not want him to go and blamed him for listening to the man she called the ‘fat king’.

The eldest daughter, Sansa, traveled with the Queen and her ladies, as was only proper for the betrothed of Jasper Arryn, the eldest son and heir of Jon Arryn. It had been intended that Arya would travel to King’s Landing with them, but Bran’s death had resulted in a change in those plans. 

Lady Catelyn in her grief had demanded that she stay. She would not risk another child being let out of her sight. Her husband had acquiesced, supported by the equally grief stricken Queen, her sister, rationalizing that Arya was only ten. There was more than enough time to make a marriage for her.

Father eventually gave up and moved to face the youngest of his true born children, Rickon. Jon’s youngest brother looked more Stark than Tully, as did Arya, while Robb, Sansa and Bran had shared the auburn hair and blue eyes of their mother. Lady Catelyn’s youngest two children favored their father greatly, with dark hair, grey eyes and a wild lean look to them.

A look that Jon shared with them. That the bastard looked more Stark than Lady Catelyn’s trueborn son and Lord Stark’s heir was a constant source of friction. It only fed her paranoia that Jon would someday challenge Robb for the lordship of the North.

As if he’d ever try to take anything from his brothers and sisters. While Jon was a Snow, as all bastards in the North were named, Jon knew he’d never betray his family. Despite what Lady Catelyn thought, and the septons preached. 

Besides, he thought grimly, the Northern Houses would never accept a bastard while a trueborn Stark lived. Lady Catelyn lacked the wit to see how loyal the North was to her lord husband. Starks had ruled for eight thousand years and Jon had no doubt they’d rule another eight thousand. 

Jon broke out of his musings as his father gently but firmly detached Rickon from his leg. His youngest brother was crying inconsolably as he shrieked for his father. Old Nan quickly gathered him up and carried him away, Rickon’s face awash with tears and arms stretched out toward Lord Stark who stood firm as his youngest son vanished into the depths of Winterfell.

Finally, his father stood before Uncle Benjen, Jon standing at his side. Lord Stark looked at his younger brother, clad in the black chain and leather of a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. None of those present could doubt they were family. Eddard and Benjen appeared to be mirrors of one another, with Jon standing at his uncle’s shoulder was cast from the same mold, almost as tall albeit more slender and less powerfully built than the two older Starks on account of being a mere boy of not yet fifteen.

“Benjen, stay safe and keep a weather eye out when ranging. I’d hate to receive a raven that the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch walked into a wildling trap.”

Benjen snorted. “I’m too wily for that, brother. You’d best keep your wits about you while in King’s Landing. The South is no place for a Stark. Keep your eyes open and your sword sharp when dealing with the vipers at the Red Keep.”

The two brothers stared at each other for a moment, then Eddard held out his hand and Benjen grasped it. Each pulled the other into a quick embrace. Jon was shocked. Neither of the two older Starks were prone to displays of emotion.

Eddard whispered something into Uncle Benjen’s ear which Jon could not make out. The younger brother nodded decisively as he pulled away and said, “Of course. Never doubt it.”

Jon saw relief flash across his father’s face before it was quickly suppressed. His father’s mask back in place, he moved to Jon.

He kept his eyes straight ahead and stood tall as his father inspected him. Despite being a stain on his honor, Lord Stark had raised him as if he were a trueborn son. He would not embarrass his father.

Many lords would cast their bastards aside, leaving them to starve. Others would have provided but sent them away. Not Eddard Stark.

Despite the tension it caused, he’d brought him back to Winterfell as an infant and insisted that he be raised as his son. That had not endeared him to his bride, Catelyn Tully, who was nursing her own infant son. No matter how she raged, his father had not bent. Lady Catelyn had to endure the humiliation of raising her husband’s bastard, alongside her sweet Robb.

Worse, she had to raise a bastard who looked more like his father than her own son. A bastard who rode better and fought better than the heir, though to be fair Jon admitted that Robb was better with a lance. 

A bastard who had worked his way into his half-siblings’ hearts. None, not even Sansa, shared their mother’s fears. Robb and Jon were closer than most brothers, and were inseparable both on and off the training yard. Arya worshipped the ground he walked on. Rickon followed him about the castle as Bran had demanded additional sword training. Even Sansa would ask him to escort her when she went riding. His siblings knew he’d give his life to protect them.

This did not reassure Lady Catelyn. With the Septa whispering poison into her ears, she only saw a well laid, long term plot. All who followed the Seven knew that bastards were born in sin and prone to deceit and treachery.

Never mind that toddlers weren’t known for their scheming, Jon thought scornfully. 

Jon sometimes wondered why Lady Catelyn had not arranged for an accident years ago. Many infants died young. No one would have batted an eye if he’d succumbed to some childhood illness. Now it was too late. He was almost fifteen, strong, and growing stronger.

Though his relative health no longer mattered. Lady Catelyn had cried her fears to her sister, the Queen. The Queen had commanded that he take the Black. A sworn brother was sworn to celibacy, could take no wife, father no children and could hold no lands. With a word, Queen Lysa had answered Lady Catelyn’s prayers and resolved her fears.

It hurt more than he’d thought it would when his father had not protested.

“Jon,” Lord Stark intoned gravely as he peered at his baseborn son. 

“My lord,” Jon replied indifferently. While Jon loved his brothers and sisters, and respected his father for not casting him aside, being sent to the Wall still hurt.

Eddard grimaced. He placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder and tried to give it a reassuring squeeze. Jon continued to stare into the distance, like a soldier at attention. Finally his father dropped his hand and sighed.

“It is an honor to serve in the Night’s Watch, Jon. You can rise high.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jon replied again without inflection. It was an honor to serve. All the singers agreed. But it would have been nice to have been given a choice.

Eddard looked at him a moment longer before nodding. He turned to Benjen. “Keep him safe, Benjen.”

His uncle looked between the two of them. Jon suspected that he was beginning to realize Jon’s volunteering for the Night’s Watch may not have been so voluntary. “I will,” he said quietly, looking at his older brother with a frown. “From everyone.” Benjen’s eyes narrowed when his older brother flinched.

With one last look at his children, Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and Hand of the King, mounted his horse and rode out. His men followed behind in a column of two, lances upright and banners flying. He spared neither a word nor a backward glance for his family or guests.

Robb kept them in the courtyard until the column vanished into the distance. It would be years before Robb saw father again, Jon knew. Longer for Jon, considering the distance between Winterfell and the Wall.

After he dismissed the castle folk, and Arya unwillingly followed her mother into the castle kicking pebbles in anger as she went, Robb approached him and their uncle. “Will you be leaving on the morrow?” he asked, everything from his tone to posture communicating his regret.

Benjen shook his head. “There is daylight still. I’d not waste it.”

Jon heard a groan from behind him. Turning he saw the Lannister brothers, Jaime the Kingslayer and Tyrion the Imp standing there. It was the Imp who had groaned.

“I had hoped for one more evening of wine and warmth,” the misshapen dwarf complained. 

Benjen’s face was stern and unforgiving. “You asked to accompany me to the Wall. I have agreed. But I will not be slowed down, Lord Lannister. I have my duty.”

Tyrion rolled his mismatched green and black eyes. “The Seven forbid that I keep you from your duty, Ser Benjen,” he japed. “The Wall might fall if you were delayed.”

Benjen looked at the two brothers uncertainly before turning to Jon. “We leave within the hour. Are you packed?”

“Yes, and my horse saddled,” Jon replied.

Benjen smiled in approval. “There is a matter or two I still need to address. I’ll return shortly. Be ready to depart.”

He turned Robb and pulled him into a hug. “Nephew, I bid you a good day.”

Robb looked embarrassed. “And you, uncle.”

The two Lannisters and Starks watched Robb hurry into the castle. Robb looked at the two golden hair brothers, one the picture of a perfect knight and the other not. “My lords, I wish to speak with my brother alone for a moment,” he said quietly.

The Imp spoke again. “Of course. We need to gather our things anyway.”

“We do?” Ser Jaime responded with amusement. “I thought we had servants for that.” 

Jon couldn’t but be jealous of Jaime Lannister. While men mocked him as an oathbreaker and kingslayer, they did not do so to his face. His temper was mercurial and he had a reputation as being one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. Jon thought the white cloak of a Kingsguard looked far finer than the black he’d be wearing before long. 

Tyrion turned without a word and left, his stunted bandied legs causing him to waddle as he left the courtyard. Jaime sighed as he followed. “The things I do for the love of my brother,” he said mockingly. “A knight of the Kingsguard packing like a common servant. My father would rage if he were to hear of it.”

His father might rage, Jon thought, but the king wouldn’t. He’d probably roar with laughter. Jon remembered that King Robert had been quick to command Jaime to accompany his brother in his exploration of the Wall. The fat king had no love for Jaime Lannister.

Robb scowled as the two Lannisters left. “I don’t trust them, Jon. Be careful on the road.”

Jon smiled tightly. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have Uncle Benjen, and Yoren and his recruits, to see me safely to the Wall,” he said bitterly. “Besides, you’re sending a dozen guardsmen to protect our guests.” The brothers shared a brief grin. Robb made little secret that their escort was less for their protection and more to prevent the two Lions from causing mischief in Stark lands. “No bandits will give us problems.”

They stood companionably for a few minutes in silence. Robb finally broke the silence.

“You don’t have to go, Jon,” Robb said hesitatingly. “I can talk to my mother. I can get her to change her mind. She’s just sick with grief. Even if she doesn’t, I’m Lord of Winterfell now. I can command her to keep silent.”

This time it was Jon’s turn to scowl. “No you won’t, Robb. She’s never wanted me here. Bran dying just made her more angry, more blatant in her efforts to exclude me. And you heard the Queen. It would only cause problems if I stayed. Besides, it might be the right thing to do. At least I’ll belong.”

They stood quietly, neither knowing what to say. “You’ll always have a home in Winterfell, Jon. Always.” Robb finally said, looking away embarrassed. 

Jon swallowed. “Thank you, Robb. I’ll be able to visit. Benjen does and I’ll be able to also.”

“See that you do, little brother,” Robb said, hiding his desire to cry under a layer of mischief. 

Jon laughed. Their father had told them that Jon was six months younger than Robb. Despite being younger, Jon stood a hand taller than his older brother, though Robb was stouter. “I’ll show you little,” he smirked as he wrapped his arm around his brother’s neck.

Benjen found them tussling in the yard, the servants pretending not to notice. He coughed and Jon pulled away from Robb. The two brothers were covered in dirt and leaves. “Some lord you make, Robb,” he lectured. “You should remember you command Winterfell now. You need to act the part and put aside boyish things.”

“Of course, uncle,” Robb said with a short bow. “I was only making sure that your newest recruit knows how to defend himself. It wouldn’t do if some wildling maiden snuck into Castle Black and carried him away.”

Jon’s sour mood had evaporated. “Nonsense,” he protested, half laughing. “It would take at least two wildling maidens to kidnap me. I would never embarrass the family by allowing myself to be overwhelmed by only one spearwife.”

Benjen gave his two nephews a small smile. “You’ll find that there is a scarcity of women, maidens or otherwise, in Castle Black. But it’s good to be prepared,” he ended with a grin.

It took some time more, but finally the party was together and rode out of Winterfell. Unlike his father, Jon turned and waved toward Robb as he left. To his surprise and delight, Arya and Rickon were on the battlement, waving and calling his name. Jon didn’t stop waving until he could no longer make out their faces and then turned to sit back in his saddle.

“You miss them already,” Ser Jaime said as he dropped back to ride by his side.

Jon refused to let eldest son of Casterly Rock see any tears. For the three weeks the King and his entourage had stayed at Winterfell, a week longer than intended on account of Bran’s death, the Kingslayer had taken an interest in Jon. It made him uncomfortable, though he did appreciate sparring with him in the practice yard. Jaime Lannister was one of the finest swords in the kingdom. Only a fool ignored his instruction on swordcraft.

“Yes,” he replied shortly. He kept his eyes straight ahead. To his surprise, the Imp rode next to Uncle Benjen. They were engaged in an animated discussion. His uncle was actually laughing.

“It gets easier,” Ser Jaime continued conversationally. “A knight is at the service of his lord and must obey his call. It’s hard on loved ones, but people can endure if there is true affection. Genuine love won’t diminish despite the passing of time.”

Jon thought Ser Jaime sounded unsure, as if he was trying to convince himself of something. “I’m no knight, Ser Jaime, and will never be one.” Grey eyes met green and the green quickly looked away. Jon continued, sensing both weakness and a mystery. “You sound as if you speak from personal experience,” he offered. 

Let your companions speak, he remembered his lord father advising. Men who spoke betrayed their inner thoughts, knowing or unknowing. Only men who kept their mouths closed betrayed no secrets.

“My sister, Cersei,” Jaime responded after a moment. “My twin. She’s married to Stannis Baratheon, the King’s brother.” Jon was surprised to hear the hate in his companion’s voice. “He keeps her away from her family, closely confined on Dragonstone. I miss her. I know she misses me. I haven’t seen her in over five years. It’s hard.”

Jon was surprised. While Ser Jaime was a master of the sword, his only other skill of note was his ability to mock and ridicule. The betrayer had a heart after all.

“I’m sure it’s as you say, Ser Jaime. You and your sister will be reunited and it will be as if you were never apart.”

They rode silently, side by side. After a time, another black brother joined them. He drove a wagon that had been waiting by the roadside. A group of men, wretched looking and half-starved, were chained to its bed. 

“Your future sworn brothers,” Ser Jaime said, amused as his eyes locked on Jon. He inclined his head toward the prisoners. “Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. Poachers. The occasional rebel and traitor. All to be transformed when a black cloak is placed over their shoulders into gallant warriors defending the realms of men from wildlings, giants, grumkins and snarks.” He smirked. “I’d learn to sleep with one eye open if I were you, Ser Jon.” 

“I’m no Ser,” he snapped, as he looked away from the Kingslayer.

“No, you aren’t, Jon Snow. Not yet, at least,” he replied cryptically. 

SJ SJ SJ

AN: For those who didn’t spot it, Robert Baratheon married Lysa Tully, not Cersei Lannister, after Robert’s Rebellion, though their three children bear the same names for convenience sake. Jon Arryn was not available for marriage to secure the Tully alliance as his second wife (Rowena) did not die of a chill (per canon) but instead gave him two sons, Jasper, named for Jon’s father and about a year older than Robb and Jon in this AU and Ronnel, named for Jon’s younger deceased brother and two years younger than Jon and Robb. The alliance with the Tully’s was secured by Ned’s marriage to Catelyn and the promise of the best marriage in his power for Lysa (which happened to be Robert, once Lyanna was known to be dead). The Lannister influence is nowhere near as prevalent in King’s Landing as in canon, to Tywin’s great frustration. That’s the major turning point in this AU.

A minor turning point is that Jon did not speak off the cuff about joining the Watch to Benjen. Instead he swallowed his hurt and remained silent. Jon going to the Wall is Queen Lysa’s idea.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

SJ SJ SJ

Tyrion watched as his brother trapped the bastard’s sword in a bind, pressed with his greater mass, and then kicked his feet out from under him. Jon hit the hard, frozen ground for the twelfth time this evening. He rolled to lessen the impact and create space just as he was taught before springing back to his feet. 

“Remember tempo, Jon,” his brother said encouragingly as he shook his head and arms to improve circulation in the cold. “Everything about battle is time and space. Don’t try to force an opening. Especially against a larger opponent.”

The bastard stood gingerly. Tyrion imagined the boy was well bruised after being repeatedly beaten into the ground, not to mention humiliated. But he appeared to bear it with good humor as he again took a guard position, tourney sword in hand.

As Jaime took his own guard position, Tyrion wondered if Jon and the other recruits knew how blessed they were. He was fairly sure Jon was aware. No matter how many spars he lost, no matter how soundly he was beaten or how badly he was bruised, he always rose again. 

It wasn’t every day that a member of the famed Kingsguard provided instruction to a bastard. It was obvious he intended to capitalize on the time available.

The other recruits were another story. Of the dozen that Yoren was escorting to the wall, only four were chained to the wagon. They were the worse of the worst, the men who would cut their throats in their sleep in an effort to escape. The other eight were at liberty to roam, once camp was set up in the evening and broken down in the morning. 

Despite their relative liberty, it was excessively cold so they didn’t wander too far from the fire. That made them easy prey for his brother. 

He ignored their grumbling as he forced them to drill. They each held a stick he had them gather from the massive, primordial forest that encroached near the King’s Road. None of them had the courage to defy the eldest son of the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, so complied even if it was with ill-grace. 

Now a journey of three weeks looked like it would stretch into four to the consternation of the Stark guardsmen. But they kept their complaints to a minimum, despite his brother’s newest hobby slowing their pace considerably. Jaime Lannister was known as the Kingslayer for his murder of his sworn lord, Aerys II, the Mad King. A knight who would strike down a king would not hesitate to do the same to a mere commoner.

Tyrion thought that showed an uncommon amount of sense on their part. Jaime was exactly the type of knight who would kill first and consider the consequences later.

Jaime spending time with Jon almost made sense. He was nobly born on both sides, if the rumors held true about his mother being Ashara Dayne. And his mother’s brother, Ser Arthur Dayne, had trained Jaime as a young knight. Returning the favor for his bastard nephew is something he could see his brother doing. After all, a Lannister always paid his debts.

Jaime spending time with common Night Watch recruits was another story entirely. He loved his brother dearly, but he’d be the first to admit he was vain, arrogant and self-absorbed. He had no time for anyone not family or a member of the Kingsguard, and even then he mocked half of those. 

His brother had refused to take many sons of great lords as a squire, to the consternation of their father. He went even further, and openly mocked them for what he claimed was their mediocre talent.

Now he was spending time with more than a half dozen peasants, providing them a small amount of instruction both morning and night. Though it was only the smallest fraction of time compared to what he was investing in Jon. 

Not one of the recruits had known how to hold a sword properly when they’d started toward Castle Black two weeks ago. Now they were tentatively practicing basic parries, cuts, and thrusts. They were even beginning the rudiments of basic footwork. None of them had the sense to realize that they were enjoying tutelage from a knight that many lords would give a small fortune for their sons to enjoy.

Tyrion prided himself on his intelligence and powers of observation. As a dwarf, his physical abilities were limited and so he’d honed his mind to be as sharp as a sword. It was his only weapon in this harsh world, other than his name and the gold that went along with it. What he was seeing was making him think he was taking leave of his senses.

His brother was being respectful and encouraging to Lord Stark’s bastard son, no matter how many times he drove him into the snow and frozen mud. His brother training the raw recruits was a transparent effort to win the approval of the boy. He doubted Jon Snow was aware of it, but Jaime’s mummery, playing the role of a proper knight, tried and true, was for his benefit and his benefit alone.

Why his brother desired the approval of a bastard boy was beyond him. Tyrion could see that the boy had considerable talent, he’d been around his brother frequently enough to see that, but why his brother would pander him was a mystery.

Tyrion hated mysteries. Especially those that involved his family.

Jon was driven to his knees again when Jaime’s blade struck him hard across the back. Tyrion winced. That would most certainly leave a painful bruise. 

Despite his brother wanting the boy’s approval for as of yet unknown reasons, he wasn’t holding back when it came to sparring. And Jon was improving dramatically as a result. He was actually capable of fending off Jaime’s attacks, at least for a brief time, before his brother pierced his guard. That was a feat many a knight would be unable to duplicate.

“That’s enough for now, Jon. Make sure you see to your equipment before you get some rest.”

“My thanks, Ser Jaime,” Jon said with a small bow as he removed his helm. To Tyrion’s ears it seemed heartfelt and genuine. Jon’s normal scowl was always replaced with a smile during and following a spar. It was only after he caught his breath and had time to think did his normal melancholy visage return in force.

Jaime waved him off as he moved over to the where the recruits were drilling at half speed under the watchful eyes of two Stark guardsmen. Though they didn’t appreciate the slow pace, they did enjoy the small coins that Jaime would pass them for assisting in training.

Jaime moved about, correcting a stance here and a grip there. Unlike when he trained Jon, there was no encouragement in his tone. Instead, he was short and demanding. But his instruction was good. He didn’t overburden them with a list of their many mistakes and shortcomings, instead focusing on one thing to improve upon with each recruit.

Finally he seemed satisfied. “That will do for this evening. Tomorrow we’ll start you sparring against each other.” He ignored the look of consternation on their faces as he moved toward the fire, stripping his armor as he went. 

Tyrion felt some sympathy for them. No one enjoyed being beaten with sticks. He foresaw many beatings in their future.

“Brother,” Tyrion asked quietly. “Can we talk?” He was tired of the mystery surrounding his brother’s changed behavior. He needed more information if he was to make sense of it.

Jaime looked down at him, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I was wondering when you’d say something.”

He handed his taller, much better looking and more beloved brother a heavy, fur lined cloak. “Walk with me.”

When they were far enough away from camp to avoid being heard, Tyrion came to a stop. Looking back toward the camp, he saw a flash of white. He was relieved he walked in this direction, away from the direwolf named Ghost. 

Though the animal had as of yet given him no cause for concern, he was nervous around Snow’s direwolf. It was larger than most hunting dogs and was still growing. Tyrion was fairly sure it was no respecter of social rank and would tear his throat out if it thought he posed any risk to his master. He being a Lannister and Jon being of Stark blood, he didn’t like his chances if something were misconstrued.

Making sure again that they were out of earshot, and that the wolf was on the other side of the camp, he let himself relax as he looked up at his older brother. 

“What are you playing at? Why the interest in the boy?”

Jaime didn’t respond for a moment. Instead he pulled his cloak more tightly around him and stared off into the distance. Sighing, he looked at Tyrion.

“I only have suspicions, no proof. But I think I’m right. And if I am right, I’ll need your help,” he said hesitatingly. 

Tyrion was in shock. Jaime Lannister was never uncertain. He most certainly never asked for help. 

“Help with what?” he asked quietly. If his brother was unsure, he didn’t want to press him. Jaime had an excess of pride. Doubt would drive him to silence if he wasn’t careful.

Jaime sat down next to him. Tyrion suppressed his irritation that this put them at eye level. He’d long grown used to it, but couldn’t help but resent these constant, unintentional reminders that he was a dwarf, standing half the height of his brother. It helped that Jaime didn’t intend these reminders, but only a little. 

Of all his family, Jaime was the one who loved him most. His father and sister would doubtless rather see him dead.

“Do you know that no one has ever asked me about the day I killed Aerys? They all assume I did it as part of a Lannister plot to overthrow the king and prove our family’s loyalty to Robert,” he began conversationally. “No one has ever asked why. Even father has never asked why.” Jaime sounded disappointed as he spoke, his eyes tracking stars.

Tyrion felt his stomach churn, but raised an eyebrow in an effort to display calm curiosity. He slowly sat down next to the only Lannister he truly cared about. “Why did you do it?” He asked cautiously.

Jaime had a blank look on his face as he continued staring up at the star filled sky. “The king had the pyromancers fill the tunnels, sewers and every underground crevices in King’s Landing with pots of wildfire. Ten thousand jars of it was placed beneath the city. Robert’s army was advancing and we only had a few hundred troops manning the walls. He wouldn’t surrender. Instead he preferred to kill everyone in the city. He wanted to leave nothing but a burnt ruin and a half million corpses for Robert to rule over,” he replied, speaking without inflection.

His palms were sweating so he pressed them into the ground to conceal his nervousness. Tyrion took a breath and reminded himself that this was not the time for a joke. 

“As the city still stands, I’d presume the wildfire was never ignited.”

“No,” Jaime responded, shaking his head. “When Aerys gave the order to the chief pyromancer, Rossart, I killed him. Then I killed the king. I went into the tunnels and killed the pyromancers waiting for orders in the sewers. When I returned, Stark and his bannermen were just entering the throne room.”

Tyrion let out his breath, relieved. “You’re a hero, brother,” he said with a genuine smile as he patted his brother’s back, trying to ignore the biting cold. “If you tell the story, the singers would be singing your praises from Sunspear to the Wall.”

Jaime looked at him, his green eyes dead and without light. “No. I’m forsworn. I’m no hero and do not deserve to be treated as such.”

He looked at Jaime with disbelief. “Are your brains addled? Yes, you broke your oath to protect a mad king but you saved a city in exchange. No one would blame you, Jaime. Even Stark, with his stubborn, stiff-necked honor, would have to admit that you did what needed to be done.”

“That’s not the oath I’m referring to,” he said, looking away ashamed. “When Prince Rhaegar left to battle Robert, I begged him to take me with him. He refused. He asked me to stay and guard his wife and infant children. I swore I would. When our father’s troops entered and sacked the city, I was not at the door I swore to guard. While I was in the sewers hunting pyromancers, my father’s sworn men were raping and killing Princess Elia, stabbing little Rhaenys half a hundred times, and dashing infant Aegon’s brains against the nursery wall. The men of the Rock, proving their courage again by murdering and raping innocents,” he sneered, visibly angered, his gloved hands clenching.

“Jaime, that’s not your fault,” Tyrion said with exasperation. “Three lives cannot weigh against hundreds of thousands. You did the right thing.”

Jaime shook his head in denial. “You don’t understand, little brother. If I’m a hero, then our father who ordered the murders of innocents I was sworn to protect, the father who made me an oathbreaker, will bask in my reflected glory. Neither he nor I deserve it.”

He stopped and thought for a second. Despite what everyone else in Westeros thought, he knew his brother had his own version of honor, twisted as it might be. He could see Jaime deciding to pay penance by accepting the disapprobation of his peers. This did not, however, explain his behavior concerning Jon Snow.

“And this explains your treatment of the bastard how?” he asked acerbically. Even though he understood why his brother let others think he was without honor didn’t mean he had to agree with him. It would be easy to see to it that Jaime received the credit he was due. 

“Everything, dear brother,” he replied with a mocking smile. “Jon may be a bastard, but he’s not Eddard Stark’s bastard. He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. And I doubt even his bastardy.”

Tyrion felt his thoughts slow as his brother spoke. His heart clenched. Finally he managed to croak out, “How do you know this?”

“He looks like the prince.” Tyrion was unable to keep the disbelief off his face, which Jaime noticed. Snorting in amusement, he continued. “Not directly. He looks like Eddard in coloring and even looks like him if facing him square. So did Lyanna, his sister. But he’s Rhaegar in profile. He has Rhaegar’s height and build. His hair curls like Rhaegar’s, he walks like Rhaegar, and he’s every bit as moody as Rhaegar.”

He looked at his brother skeptically. “Are you sure you aren’t letting your imagination run wild, Jaime? Even if there is a passing resemblance, that could be coincidence. He’s no silver haired, purple eyed Targaryen.”

Jaime smirked. “Lord Stark and six companions fought three Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy. All three of my sworn brothers died, as did five of Lord Stark’s bannermen. What were they doing there, Tyrion?”

Tyrion felt his skin prickle as he wrapped his mind around the riddle. “Lord Stark claimed they were holding his sister prisoner. She died of an illness.”

Jaime leaned back as he wrapped his hand around his knee. “The Kingsguard is sworn to protect the King and his family, not serve as jailors. Even if Prince Rhaegar had ordered Lord Commander Gerold Hightower to help kidnap and rape Lyanna Stark, as the singers claim, that order would not have superseded their duty to protect the King and his family. They would have returned to King’s Landing, maybe with Lyanna in tow.” Jaime looked smugly at his younger brother. “Tell me, Tyrion. You’re the clever brother. Even father acknowledges that. Why would three of the seven Kingsguard remain at the Tower of Joy while their King and Prince were at war?”

The facts crystallized into a unified whole in Tyrion’s mind. “Their duty kept them there. Lyanna Stark was pregnant with Rhaegar’s child.”

“Exactly, though it would have to have been a legitimate child. They would not have guarded a Sand, or Snow, or Blackfyre,” Jaime said as he smirked triumphantly. “Lord Stark claimed a bastard child soon after the battle at the Tower of Joy. Lord Stark was known for his honor, then and now. It shocked everyone that he’d dishonor his wife by fathering a bastard. I don’t think he did. I think he lied to protect his sister’s son from those who approved the murder of the Targaryen babes, which include our current King.”

“It is still tenuous, Jaime,” Tyrion said desperately. “It is more supposition than solid fact.”

“Aye, brother,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “Any of those details alone would raise mere suspicion. Looked at together, however, I am certain that I’m right.”

Tyrion huddled deeper into his cloak, mentally cursing the cold and the headache his inconsiderate brother had dropped into his lap.

“So why all of this?” he asked, waving his hand in the direction of the camp.

Jaime frowned as his uncertainty returned. “I want to fulfill my oath to Rhaegar. I want to protect his last remaining child. So I’m trying to win Jon’s trust, so that he won’t swear to the Night Watch. I’m hoping that he’ll serve as my squire so I can take him from here. I want to give him a future.”

Tyrion looked at Jaime dispassionately. He really hoped his brother was not suggesting rebellion. “Will you try to make him King?”

“No, brother. Not unless Ned Stark forces my hand.” Relief washed over him hearing those words. “His own uncle sent him to the Wall to remove Jon as a threat to his goodbrother, the King,” he sneered contemptuously. “He won’t rise up to support Jon. I only want to give him a life. If I can do that, I think Rhaegar might forgive me in the next.”

“And if Jon refuses? If he insists on taking the oath?” He was curious as to his brother’s thoughts.

Jaime stood, his face bleak, as he stamped his feet trying to restore some warmth. “Then I’ll trade my white cloak for black. I won’t leave Rhaegar’s son unprotected.” His grim visage vanished as he looked at his brother with dancing green eyes. “So I need your help, little brother. You’re the clever one. How do I convince a stubborn boy not to throw away his life?”

Tyrion groaned. “Have you discussed it with Jon?”

“Several times. He insists that he’s a man of his word, despite being a bastard. He said that he’ll take the black so that’s what he’s going to do.”

Tyrion stood next to his brother, ignoring his ever present irritation that his head didn’t quite reach his brother’s elbow. He needed a drink. Several drinks. He needed to get blind drunk and forget this conversation. His breath was white with cold as he exhaled.

“Then we stop trying to convince Jon,” Tyrion said decisively. “We convince his uncle and the Lord Commander instead.”

Jaime looked at Tyrion and smiled, slapping him across his back and causing him to stumble forward. Tyrion scowled as he glared at his brother. “I’ll talk to Benjen on the morrow,” he huffed as he stomped back to camp and his too few blankets and furs.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

SJ SJ SJ

Tyrion woke with a groan. Castle Black was cold. It was even colder outside. No matter how high he banked the fireplace in his room or how many furs he piled on the thin cot the Watch called a bed, he couldn’t get the chill from his bones.

As he swung his short, malformed legs over the side of his bed he cursed his brother again. His original ambitions had been simple. He was supposed to have visited the Watch, perused their library, and pissed off the edge of the Wall into the frozen end of the world, the Land of Always Winter. A visit of a week or so at most. Jaime had put paid to that plan in short order.

As he dressed in his warmest woolens and heaviest furs, he cursed his brother again. He’d turned a short visit into one that had lasted ten weeks. At least his time was almost done. 

Soon he’d be on a ship and sailing south to lands where the sun still shined. There he’d do his best to advance the next part of their scheme, both the portion his brother knew about and those he did not.

His eyes still bleary, he stumbled towards his breakfast with Lord Commander Mormont and Maester Aemon. Most members of the Watch were dullards. He was blessed to find two that could actually engage in stimulating conversation.

Two out of a thousand, he scowled darkly. Three if he counted Samwell. The things he endured for his brother. 

If he were ever forced to take the black, something he was sure his lord father had considered from time to time, he thought he might throw himself off the top of the Wall. Death was not too high a price to pay to avoid the mindless prattle of the vast bulk of the Watch.

The sworn brothers he passed in the corridors paid him no mind. He’d quickly learned that the mockery he endured as a dwarf in the halls of southern lords was not present at the Wall. Dwarf or not, he was a lord. His noble birth apparently trumped any defects of his body so far as the typical member of the Watch was concerned. He presumed that was due to a dearth of lords and knights serving at the Wall.

When he arrived before the Lord Commander’s solar, he gave it three smart raps as had become his custom. He was not surprised when an instant, “Enter,” was called out.

Jeor Mormont was an older man, bald with white whiskers sprouting from his face. His blue eyes were clear and his body fit, despite his age. Clad in black furs and chain, he was every inch the picture of a warlord of old.

Sitting next to him was blind Maester Aemon. His eyes were milky, his body frail, but Tyrion knew his mind was still razor sharp. The last Targaryen in Westeros, he thought with sympathy, if he didn’t count Jon. Over a century old, with a handful of years left, at best, he’d watched his once powerful family wither and die. 

Tyrion was surprised the maester had not yet poisoned his morning meal. His father had been the architect of the Targaryen destruction, even if the Baratheons, Starks, Tullys and Arryns fought the actual battles. Lannister men had limited themselves to looting and raping when the Targaryen defeat was certain.

One of the many reasons the Lannisters were viewed with disfavor by King Robert. Tywin had expected to be rewarded when he presented the bodies of the dead Targaryen babes to Baratheon and Stark. While Stark was shocked and angered, Robert had remained silent even though he looked content. 

After the war, when his father had broached the possibility of a marriage between Cersei and Robert, the king had laughed. “Those who arrived last to the feast get the scraps. I’ll be marrying the Tully girl. Your daughter can have Stannis,” he mocked. Then as an added insult, once the marriage was done, he gave the Stormlands to Renly, the youngest of his brothers, and made Stannis the Lord of Dragonstone, a poor pile of rocks.

The only thing Tywin Lannister’s belated loyalty had won him was the life of his eldest son, who remained a member of the Kingsguard despite Stark’s arguments that he should be executed or sent to the Wall. Influenced by the wily Jon Arryn, Robert decided to keep his son as a member of the Kingsguard, half as a hostage and half to irritate the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Tywin Lannister had been nursing a grudge against the King ever since that day. He was denied a queen, denied a goodson as a lord paramount, denied a place at court, denied his heir, and was generally viewed with contempt everywhere. Except in the Westerlands, of course, where he was genuinely feared. And for good reason.

He put his musings to the side as he stopped before his hosts and gave them a small bow. “Good morning, my lords,” he said dramatically. “I trust the weather has not changed.” He made no effort to hide the sarcasm in his tone. So far as he could see weather at the Wall came in two varieties. Snow and ice, and even more snow and ice.

Mormont chuckled. “The weather remains unchanged, Lord Tyrion. It remains good. You’ve been blessed. When winter comes to the Wall you’ll know what real cold feels like.”

Tyrion looked at him skeptically. “I'll take your word for it, Lord Commander. I have no wish to experience it.”

Aemon patted the chair to his left, his eyes staring off into the far distance. Tyrion found it disconcerting. 

“Sit down, please,” Aemon said, dispensing with titles as was his right. Aemon was born a prince. Despite his vows, and short of the King traveling to the Wall, his status still entitled him to disregard the formalities if he so desired. He handed Tyrion a small scroll as he made himself comfortable. 

The scroll was sealed with red wax imprinted with a lion rampant. His father’s seal. He broke the seal and read the note quickly. As was his father’s custom, it was terse. ‘Use your judgement.’ It was unsigned.

Tyrion sighed. Was it really too much to ask for more detailed authority? A budget, perhaps? No, he knew his father enjoyed testing his youngest and least favored son. This was doubtless another such test. 

Tywin Lannister had never succeeded in relieving Jaime of his white cloak. Tyrion looked forward to the look on his face when his least favorite son managed to do what he could not.

He rolled the scroll back up and slipped it into his sleeve. “Any word on the men?” he asked curiously as he liberally applied butter to his morning porridge. 

He’d discovered that food was plentiful at the Wall, perhaps a consequence of their deficit in numbers, but variation was sorely lacking. He was pleasantly surprised to see that a bit of bacon had made its way into his bowl. A treat. The Lord Commander must be in a good mood.

“A raven has arrived from Eastwatch. A ship docked last evening and discharged seven score and eleven men. All young, healthy and none of them known criminals,” the Lord Commander said pleased. 

That explained his good humor, Tyrion noted. “I’m glad to hear it, Lord Mormont. Perhaps now you’ll trust me when I say a Lannister always pays his debts. In this case, overpaid.” 

Tyrion had only promised at least a hundred men. Apparently Uncle Kevan’s offer of a bounty for those residents of Flea Bottom who volunteered to take the black was a success. Knowing how tightfisted his uncle was, Tyrion suspected that the Wall could be fully manned at a fraction of the cost of one of King Robert’s tournaments.

The gleam in Mormont’s eye caused Tyrion to feel more than a bit uncomfortable. He wished there was wine in his goblet. Unfortunately, he’d only been offered a weak ale for his morning breakfast. The comforts he sacrificed for his brother and his foolish schemes.

“Even with our newest recruits, we are still severely undermanned. Is there anything you can do to prevail on your family to send more men?”

Tyrion felt a flash of anger. He’d fulfilled his promise. It was time the Lord Commander fulfilled his. “Mayhap,” he replied, his tone curt. “But it would behoove you to honor your end, first.”

“I apologize, Lord Tyrion,” he said, not sounding contrite at all, though at least he had the grace to look embarrassed as he looked away. “My duty is to the Watch and I sometimes forget other concerns.” He handed two letters to Tyrion, both sealed in black wax. One bore the imprint of a raven and the other a wolf. “A letter to Lord Stark from myself and another from his brother, as you requested.”

He resisted smiling. It wouldn’t do to gloat. “And Jon Snow?”

“As explained in the letters, both I and his Uncle believe he is too young to take the black. He’d benefit from some time serving as a squire and gaining experience. We will consider accepting him when he’s of a more mature age.” 

Mormont looked bitter as he spoke. Snow was a natural leader. His loss would be a blow to the Watch. A blow that was more than offset by a hundred and fifty men, so far as Tyrion was concerned.

Tyrion decided to be magnanimous in victory. “Thank you, Lord Mormont. I plan to take a ship from Eastwatch when my brother returns. If you would allow me the use of a ship, Yoren and some of your men, I’d gladly do what I can to send it back full of recruits when I land in King’s Landing.” 

As a Lannister, Tyrion discovered early in life that men would almost always act in their self interest. A promise of an additional influx of recruits would motivate Lord Mormont to keep his end of the deal, and refuse to accept Jon’s oath, while at the same time making House Lannister look generous. It was a win for everyone, Tyrion decided looking at the Lord Commander with hooded eyes.

Mormont’s normally frozen face broke out into a genuine smile. It was disconcerting. “On behalf of the Watch, I thank you, Lord Tyrion. You’ll have all the assistance I can give. I’ll also send a raven to Hugo Wull and see that a ship is waiting for Ser Jaime and Jon Snow in the Bay of Ice near our westernmost castle.”

The blind maester had been sitting quietly, eating small spoonfuls of thin porridge, with an ear cocked toward the conversation. “Tell me, Lord Tyrion,” he asked quietly, surprising him with his use of the honorific. Apparently being able to deliver on promises of large bodies of untrained men for the Watch warranted the courtesy of a title. “Why is Ser Jaime so interested in Jon Snow?”

Tyrion sighed, pretending to be frustrated. “Why my brother does what he does is often beyond me, Maester Aemon. I know he believes the boy has tremendous talent as a warrior and he wants to see it nurtured. He also enjoys tweaking Lord Stark’s nose. He thinks he can do so by turning the boy Lord Stark sent to the Wall into a great knight. Beyond that, I cannot say. My brother’s mind is a mystery, I suspect even to himself.” 

Tyrion was not about to admit that Jaime wanted redemption and that Jon was his path toward it. Besides, at least three already knew the secret which was two too many in Tyrion’s opinion. While he was confident that Aemon Targaryen would never betray his great-great-nephew to Robert Baratheon, he had no such assurance as to Lord Mormont. 

The elderly bald warrior had more than once proclaimed his only loyalty was to the Watch. Tyrion could only imagine the richness of the reward the king would give to anyone who delivered him a living Targaryen. King Robert made no secret of his desire to see every remnant of the family destroyed. Even though blind Aemon survived unmolested, Tyrion thought it best not to tempt the Lord Commander.

Maester Aemon leaned forward, his frail body perched precariously at the edge of his chair. Tyrion didn’t not think himself especially quick or strong but prepared to intervene if the elderly Targaryen were to take a fall. “Does he mean the boy harm?”

Tyrion did not have to pretend to laugh. It came naturally. “No,” he gasped as he managed to regain control of his voice. “His desire to develop Jon’s talent is genuine. If he wanted the boy harmed, he’d simply run his sword through his body or toss him off the top of the Wall. My brother is a very direct man. He does not plot or scheme.”

The forgotten, elderly Targaryen prince stared vacantly over Tyrion’s left shoulder for a moment, his milky white eyes searching for something only he could see, before pulling back. He appeared content. “Good. I hope to hear good things about young Jon in the future. And who knows, perhaps when he is man grown he’ll return to the Wall.”

The conversation turned to other things, which Tyrion greatly appreciated. When they’d finished their fast, he excused himself to the vault and the library contained within it. 

Tyrion grumbled about the unnecessary time Jaime was taking on his survey of the Wall's defenses, even though he understood the need, but a part of him appreciated the delay. The library within Castle Black was ancient and massive. There were a multitude of books and scrolls that even the Citadel did not possess. 

Lord Mormont and Maester Aemon were sitting on many fortunes worth of knowledge. The Maesters of the Citadel would give their weight in gold for the chance to copy many of the volumes he’d discovered in the dark recesses of the library. He decided not to illuminate them, at least not until he sent another ship of men north to the Wall. 

It would be far too easy for the Watch to supplement its numbers by offering to pay the apprenticeship fee for one son on condition that another took the black. He suspected that there were thousands of families in Flea Bottom who would jump at the opportunity to guarantee regular meals for an elder son at the Wall while securing a trade and future for a younger, thereby reducing the number of mouths to feed by two. 

He wondered why the Watch never considered offering such a bounty to supplement their numbers. The cynical part of his brain reminded the curious part that most within the Night Watch were very dim.

Two days later, Jaime and Jon returned from their survey of the nine castles to the east of Castle Black. Jaime appeared to be in good spirits, as was Jon, though most of their escort looked out of sorts. Even with the snow and hard frozen ground it should take no more than a day for unencumbered riders to travel between each castle. Jaime had stretched it out to more than a week at each castle under the guise of being meticulous in his survey.

Jaime had taken two members of the Night's Watch who knew the way and the eight young men he’d been drilling on the road from Winterfell. He claimed that he’d started their education with the sword and he’d see them through the fundamentals before he was done. 

In reality, Tyrion thought he just wanted to send them two and three at a time against Jon, as they were approaching the skill level of the better trained common levies. 

In any event, even Lord Commander Mormont had to give way to the whirlwind of arrogance that was Jaime Lannister. When Ser Alliser Thorne protested, Jaime demonstrated in no uncertain terms why it was unwise to deny him. The Watch’s drill master spent days recovering from the casual beating inflicted by his brother. In response, the Lord Commander decided that offending the son of the Lord Paramount of the West did not serve the interests of the Watch. He pretended that allowing a member of the Kingsguard to train eight future black brothers was a golden opportunity.

Which it was, Tyrion thought. He’d watched Ser Alliser training recruits in the yard. He’d quickly come to the opinion that while he may possess the skills of a knight, he was a miserable instructor and a bully to boot. His brother, for all his many faults, including supreme arrogance, was far better at teaching war to peasants than the Night Watch. 

They also had no eye for talent. Tyrion was jaded in the ways of the world but he thought Thorne’s abuse of the Tarly boy went far beyond the pale. This offended Tyrion as the boy in many ways reminded him of himself. He’d already put a plan in motion to deal with that particular problem. Another favor he’d done for the Watch, not that any but Maester Aemon would ever know.

Heaven help us if the snarks and grumpkins ever decided to move south, Tyrion mused. The mindless rabble that was the Watch was a poor shield for the realms of men.

Jaime trotted into the yard, Jon at his side, and the recruits and members of the Watch looking more than a bit battered and bruised. He dismounted and embraced him.

“Tyrion! It seems like it’s been moons since we’ve seen another.” Jaime had a yellow bruise coloring the left side of his face and seemed to favor the same side. Despite that, he appeared exuberant, as did Jon.

Tyrion failed to keep a sour look off his face. “That’s because it has been, brother.”

He suppressed a snarl as Jaime slapped him across the back causing him to stumble forward. “Don’t look so out of sorts. I know you’ve buried your nose in the library and surrounded yourself with musty, ancient tomes of forbidden knowledge,” he said mockingly. “You know you’ll miss it as soon as you ride away.” He turned and pulled some scrolls out of his saddle bags. “Speaking of which, here’s my survey of the defensive status of the east half of the Wall. Give it to Ser Barristan when you reach King’s Landing.”

Tyrion sighed. He must have severely offended the Seven in some past life to be born both a dwarf and the brother of Jaime Lannister.

He looked past his brother toward Jon. The boy’s face was covered in even more bruises and cuts than his brother’s. His nose looked to have been broken and recently reset. Their sparring had obviously gotten out of hand, though the boy’s smile was bright. 

“So have you changed your mind about serving as my brother’s squire, young Snow?” Tyrion tried to keep his tone serious, but it was so hard. Only a stiff-necked fool would have to be persuaded to squire for the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Jon was very much a stiff-necked fool.

Jon had stopped when addressed. He’d already taken the reins of both his and Jaime’s mounts, as well as the halter lines of their packhorses and was preparing to lead them away. The bright look on the boy’s face appeared to dim. His visage darkened. “My lord father would never permit it, Lord Tyrion,” he responded noncommittally.

Tyrion smirked at the sullen faced young man. “Never say never, Jon. I intend to raise the issue with him when I see him in King’s Landing. Look for a raven at Shadow Tower. In the meantime, the Lord Commander would like to speak with you when you're done with the horses.”

Tyrion saw hope briefly flash across Jon’s face before he resumed his dark guarded look. He’d bet his last halfpenny that Jon was beginning to realize how good a swordsman he could become under Jaime’s instruction.

“As you say, Lord Tyrion,” Jon said without inflection as he guided the horses toward the stables.

He turned to his brother. “I take it Jon is weakening in his commitment to take the oath?”

Jaime smirked. “Would you rather be a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, in all its glory,” he said waving his arm to encompass the crumbling ice covered structure that was Castle Black, “or a successful and famous tourney knight, with lands, family and above all a name? It has finally sunk into the boy’s thick head that he has a choice. His only fear is Lord Stark’s reaction.”

The two brothers moved toward the dining hall. “I’ll leave for Eastwatch tomorrow and take a ship to King’s Landing from there,” Tyrion said. “I should be at sea for three to six weeks, depending on the weather. Will you survey the western half of the Wall at the same diligent pace you took for the eastern?” He didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Of course, dear brother. Would you have me forsworn? I made a solemn vow to obey the commands of my king. He has commanded me to complete a detailed and meticulous survey of the Watch’s defenses. No matter how much time it requires, weeks, moons or even years, I will obey my liege’s orders in every particular,” he responded with false piety, his eyes dancing with mirth.

He snorted as he followed his brother into the warmth of the hall. A regretful ache suffused his being as he realized that tomorrow he’d likely never see this place again. Jaime was right. He’d miss the library and the company of a few of the sworn brothers. But Tyrion found he was missing the warmth of the sun more.

SJ SJ SJ

AN: Another small twist that had a lasting impact. Robert did not publicly gloat when the Dornish princess and Targaryen babes were presented to him, even though he approved. The rift between Ned and Robert was nowhere near as wide as it was in canon. The only thing they argued about was Jaime’s punishment, which Jon Arryn eventually settled for political reasons. Dorne still hates the Baratheons and Lannisters.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made.

SJ SJ SJ

They were three weeks out of Castle Black when they stumbled upon a family fleeing toward the Wall. Clad in rags and smelly furs, two older women carried two babes, while a boy of about ten encouraged them on. Their heads were down as they focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Their faces were etched with grief and fear.

Jaime pulled his horse up. The eldest woman, hair steel grey and face heavily lined, exclaimed in shock, "My lord!"

Jaime supposed she had cause to be shocked. It couldn't be a usual thing for the smallfolk to encounter a Westerland knight wandering this far north.

She dropped to the ground and knelt, which showed considerable sense on her part. The other woman and boy stood there gawping, until the kneeling woman reached out and pulled them down.

Normally Jaime would have ignored them. They were nothing but smelly unwashed smallfolk, not worthy of his time. However, they'd been traveling for weeks with no other human contact and so he was interested despite himself.

"Where do you hail from?" Jaime asked curiously. The eldest kept her eyes averted, though the other two kept raising their eyes to look up at him. His father would have had them whipped. Jaime let it pass. They were Northern savages and obviously didn't know any better.

"Our homes are not far south on foot, m'lord," the elder woman said, her voice fearful. "Wildling raiders attacked. We ran with the children. Please lord, can you help? Many of our family were not able to escape." She prostrated herself before him, body flat on the cold hard ground. Whoever this woman was, someone had taught her proper courtesy, unlike the rest of her spawn.

Jaime thought for a moment, his horse stepping nervously under him. He appreciated the Watch's willingness to assist him and his house, but the quality of food and horse left a lot to be desired. His current mount was a nervous, finicky thing and would have barely qualified as a packhorse in the Westerlands. It certainly was a far cry from the chargers he was accustomed to.

He waited for additional information. After a moment of silence, he presumed it would not be forthcoming. "How many? How are they armed?" he asked impatiently. It was obvious that despite her knowledge of proper courtesy, she had no sense.

The older woman hesitated, but the boy responded before she could work up her courage. "About a dozen I think, m'lord. Armed with spears and axes."

Jaime looked toward the boy before looking away again. His protruding eyes and intent gaze annoyed him. Honestly, had they never encountered an armed and armored knight before?

Jaime turned to the party behind him. "Jon, stay on my left. I will cover your unshielded side." Jaime was pleased to see that Jon had already strapped his shield to his arm and freed his spear from its bindings.

A white shape moved in the distance. Jon's direwolf. The monstrous thing tolerated his presence, if only barely. He was curious as to the outcome if the wolf thought he was a threat. It would be an interesting fight.

Jaime put the thought of the oversized wolf out of his mind and nodded to the two black brothers. "You two ride to the left of Jon." Pointing at Grenn and Pyp, the only two recruits that he would trust in a battle to at least hold a spear and sword properly, he said, "You two are on my right."

He followed Jon's example in tightening his shield to his arm. Jon and the other Night Watch recruits and brothers were using antiquated round shields, while his was a heater, which was more suited for fighting from horseback. The Night Watch was in dire need to resupply, he thought vaguely before dismissing the thought. It wasn't his problem.

He gestured to the other six recruits, thieves and poachers the lot of them. They were improving but it would be a long while before he'd trust them at his side in battle. Jon was the only real support he'd have in the upcoming skirmish. He barely trusted the others to have the discipline and focus not to accidentally stab him in the heat of battle. "We are only a few hours out from Hoarfrost Hill. Take the packhorses and the smallfolk there. Set up a defensive position and await our return. If we are not back by tomorrow, return to Castle Black."

Jaime didn't wait to see if his orders were obeyed before spurring his horse into a trot. The trail the smallfolk had been on was well marked and hardened, so there was little risk that his mount would stumble. Considering the state of the family, he thought it wouldn't be long before they came upon the village. They couldn't have traveled far.

Jaime was pleased with his small command. They obeyed his orders without question, which was a sign of a good soldier. The two black brothers were experienced rangers and knew enough of war to be silent.

Jon was naturally taciturn and wouldn't speak without prompting. Jaime made a mental note to get him harping and singing lessons when they returned south. If he was anything like his real father, he'd be a natural. Besides, the thought of forcing the dour and melancholy boy to sing amused him greatly.

Grenn and Pyp were gems, though small ones and a bit rough. Their flickering eyes, sweat and belabored breathing betrayed their obvious nervousness as they fidgeted with their spears. But they obeyed orders, moved well and kept silent. Unlike the vast bulk of the unwashed masses, they had a small bit of talent and were capable of learning to properly fight.

He regretted they'd been sentenced to the Wall and weren't volunteers. Otherwise, he'd be tempted to steal them away. They'd make excellent Lannister armsmen.

They came upon the small village, a hamlet really, after only a brief time. Jaime pulled his horse up sharply and motioned silently for his men to take their positions.

The few scattered buildings were on fire. Shapes were moving in the distance. Bodies were scattered about. The attackers had been at it for a while as he heard no screams, only a constant weeping from the beaten smallfolk.

Jaime thought back to his days of fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood. He'd seen many small villages such as this in his time. He had no doubt that the attackers were confident they'd killed all opposition and were now enjoying the fruits of their victory, raping and looting. This pleased him. They'd be distracted and easy meat for what was to come.

"We will advance at a canter. Start the gallop as we reach the edge of the village. We will reform on the opposite side. Ride past the wildlings as you strike. Do not stop. Do not slow. Do not try to keep hold of your spear. Strike the center of your target's body, release the spear, and keep moving. If you stop, they will pull you from your horse and you will die." He spoke quietly, ignoring the white mist that exited his body as he spoke.

The North was colder than he'd ever imagined. He promised himself he'd never venture north of the Neck again. Only a maniac would voluntarily live in the North, which at best was a frost covered forest and at worse an arctic wasteland.

He didn't wait for any acknowledgement as he kicked his mount into motion. They would follow or they would not.

The hamlet was much as he expected it would be. A few wildlings were collecting anything metal and depositing it into a pile centered between the ramshackle huts the smallfolk called home. A couple more were guarding the survivors of their attack, mostly small children with some older children and elderly crones who were ineffectually trying to comfort them. The village's men were lying scattered about in various stages of death and dismemberment. It was obvious their defense had been sporadic and unorganized, likely as they'd been taken by surprise as they laid sleeping.

By far the largest group of wildlings, about a dozen, were gathered around a few of the village's surviving women. They were taking turns raping them. It was this group that Jaime leveled his spear at. He was pleased to see Jon follow suit out of the corner of his eye.

Surprise was total. As they entered the village, the wildlings who were collecting loot scattered at their approach. The two guards yelled but stood frozen. The rapists were slow to respond. Jaime's spear took the first in the back near the lower spine. He gave his spear a twist before releasing it and riding past. The man dropped to the ground, screaming.

One of the two wildling guards was on the ground, Jon's direwolf savaging him as he shrieked. The other was running as if the hounds of hell were on his trail. Depending on what the blood covered white wolf decided to do next, they may well be, Jaime thought amused.

Jon had impaled a wildling who had half turned, the momentum of the strike driving the man into the hard earth. Jon matched Jaime and stayed with him stirrup to stirrup, as did the two black brothers to his left. Jaime noticed with a frown that one of them had missed their strike and he still had a spear in his hand.

Grenn and Pyp had broken formation. Pyp's strike had missed as his target proved quicker than most and had rolled out of the way. Grenn's had landed true, but he had slowed, his mouth agape in shock as he observed his victim bleeding out, crying, begging as he rolled about the ground.

But Pyp kept his wits about him and grabbed the reins of Grenn's horse, spurring them back into motion. A good thing too as they narrowly avoided the surviving wildlings cutting them off.

Jaime glared at the two raw recruits as they rejoined them. "Ride through!" he snapped. Grenn had the good grace to look abashed as he dropped his head.

"Again," Jaime snarled as he drew his sword. "One strike at their head as you ride past!" His eyes were on Grenn. "We regroup where we began."

One of the black brothers protested. He pointed his blade at the wildlings who were congregating in the center of the hamlet. "They've grouped up. Our horses won't charge a mass of men!"

Jaime looked at him contemptuously. "I would agree if they were disciplined infantry. They aren't. They'll break." With that Jaime spurred his horse forward again, confident they'd follow.

His confidence was well placed. His men followed and the wildlings broke. It took a disciplined warrior to face down a charging horse. The wildlings weren't disciplined. Jaime doubted they'd even qualify as warriors. Most reavers were opportunists, thieves, not men of iron.

The wildlings tried to run and Jaime struck twice, once to the left and once to the right as he rode past. They never saw his blade descend as he split both their skulls.

When he pulled up, everyone's blade was bloody. Even Grenn's, though he was lying in a huddled, gasping heap, the wind knocked out of him. Apparently he had struck across his horse, clipping his mount's ear. It was horse blood on his blade, not human. Unsurprisingly, the frightened beast had thrown his rider. Luckily for the oversized boy, the remaining wildlings were too busy fleeing to poise any threat to him.

He snorted as he mentally reevaluated Grenn. He may have some modest talent with a spear and blade but he was crap on horseback.

Pyp on the other hand acted as if he was born on a horse. "Don't!" He loudly ordered the jugged ear boy when he started after the fleeing men. "We don't know if this was the main body or just skirmishers. Never pursue an enemy if you don't know where they're leading you."

Once it appeared he had their attention again, he led them back into the village, pulling a spear out of a corpse. He thrust viciously downward, sticking the corpse again. "Take a spear. Stick every wildling, whether you think they're dead or not. Too many bandits like to play dead and you don't need one sticking a knife in your back when your attention is elsewhere."

They all complied. The black brothers took a particular glee in repeatedly stabbing the corpses. There was no love lost between wildlings and rangers of the Night Watch.

He was pleased to see that Jon wasn't shirking his duty, though he seemed pale and drawn as he did so. The boy barely flinched when he stuck another supposedly dead wildling, who groaned in agony when the steel entered his body. A second strike silenced him. Jon leaned over his horse's side and vomited.

It was better he found out that killing is dirty work sooner rather than later, Jaime thought sympathetically. At least he waited to make sure his enemy was dead before losing the contents of his stomach. He'd talk to the boy when they were out of danger.

It wasn't like the songs. Men never died easy or clean.

Jaime scowled as he saw the three women who were being brutalized stumble towards the children. A quick count established there were over twenty survivors. Most weren't in a fit state to walk. That meant they'd have to ride triple, unless he abandoned them. Thankfully they all looked half-starved, so the horses should be able to handle the weight at a walk.

Jaime was hesitant to let one peasant share his horse, let alone two. He judged he was at serious risk of catching fleas as it looked as if they only rarely bathed. Filthy things, he sneered disdainfully.

As they gathered the surviving women and children, and divided them into groups based on estimated weight, one woman protested leaving their homes. She apparently didn't understand why Jaime and his men couldn't stay to protect them. He finally lost patience and cuffed her. The constant demands and questions were delaying the evacuation of the village.

She spent the rest of the journey alternating between casting him fearful glances and glaring at him. He didn't mind so long as she kept her mouth shut. He made sure she was among those walking. If the wildlings regrouped and attacked, the world might have one less irritant if he was fortunate.

He suggested one black brother go forward as a scout and the other back to watch their rear. "We'll head to Hoarfrost. Keep the horses at a walk. We don't want to lose them. If you see any wildlings, drop the women and children and form up."

The black brothers nodded their heads in agreement, though Jon blinked when he heard this order. There it is, Jaime thought smugly, Eddard Stark's unrealistic sense of honor.

"Wouldn't it be better if we just pushed the horses?" Jon protested. "They can make it to the rendezvous point despite the load. It wouldn't be right to leave these people behind."

The smallfolk close by stiffened. They looked fearful overhearing Jon and Jaime's exchange.

Jaime sneered in response. "If the numbers aren't over large, we'll kill them. But you can't kill them if you're holding a woman or child instead of a sword. If there are too many, we drop them and run. You saw what happened in the village, the wildlings will kill you just for being a grown man able to use a sword. They won't necessarily kill the women and children."

Jaime spurred his horse closer to Jon. He leaned over so he wouldn't be overheard. "I have fought in a hundred battles, Jon. You are a green fourteen year old boy. Your job is to ride when I say ride, kill when I say kill. Do not question me on a battlefield again. Understood?" he demanded quietly.

Jon stared hard at him for a moment. Jaime channeled his father and met the boy's icy gaze. It had served him in good stead more than once. It was the same here. Jon finally blinked and looked away, nodding his head in agreement.

The slow ride to the Hoarfrost was anticlimactic. They encountered no more wildlings. At a distance, the direwolf was maintaining a lazy pace while it continuously circled their party. It almost acted like it was a free roaming outrider, keeping watch.

He wondered what it would be like to have an army of direwolves. They'd make amazing scouts and shock troops, he thought idly, taken with his momentary flight of fancy.

They found the other recruits had barricaded themselves with the horses in the remnant of the castle's stables. It wasn't the worst choice. At least they stayed with the horses and supplies. He just wished they'd chosen a location that didn't include a long dried out thatched roof. It would be the work of a moment to burn them out.

The reunion between the two groups of villagers was bittersweet. It also irritated Jaime immensely. The weeping and wailing about lost family and friends grated on his nerves. They wouldn't have lost anyone if they'd taken their security seriously and kept a sword or spear close. Maybe even dug a ditch around the hovels they called home. Fools.

Jon found him away from the main group later that evening. He was making notes about the pathetic state of the castle's defenses and trying unsuccessfully to put the thought that he'd be abandoning these people when the sun rose tomorrow out of his mind. He'd left so many to die, what were a few more?

His notes weren't really necessary. Every single fortification he'd surveyed so far was receiving the same report, with only a few differing details. They were in serious disrepair and would be taken with no effort from a force coming from the south. A force coming from the north would be able to take it with a ram if they knew the weak points, or had ice picks and sufficient time to work uninterrupted, or were able to climb the massive block of ice which the rangers assured him had been done before.

Considering the state of the Crown's finances, he doubted any relief was coming despite the desperate need. He wondered if he should copy his reports to Lord Stark. He dismissed the thought. If the ever so honorable Lord Stark wanted advice from Jaime Lannister, he could damn well ask for it.

"What will we do with the smallfolk?" Jon asked. He was polite and respectful when he addressed his mentor, but it was clear to Jaime that he wanted to save them. He wondered if he'd argue the point.

"There's nothing we can do for them," Jaime replied curtly. "They're too weak to walk for any prolonged period. The horses won't handle the extra load. We lack the supplies to feed another near thirty mouths over the time it would take us to walk, so very slowly, to Shadow Tower or Castle Black."

"It's a knight's sworn duty to protect women, children and the innocent," Jon protested. Jaime didn't miss that he was clenching his fist. His answer had angered him but he was trying to not show it.

"Knight or not, you can't save everyone, Jon. As a commander, you'll have to give orders that will send people to their deaths. In war, you'll burn farms and crops. You'll seize food from the weak and innocent to feed your men. In a siege, you'll have to give the order to evict the worthless mouths to conserve supplies. Condemning the smallfolk to a slow death by starvation will often be unavoidable. You'll find yourself in countless situations where your oath as a knight will conflict with the reality of your situation. Sometimes, you have to allow innocents to die, so a greater number can be saved elsewhere, or a military objective can be achieved and the war won."

As Jaime spoke he felt himself become detached as he remembered the many oaths he'd broken, the many lives he'd saved and those he had not. He hoped that Jon would never find himself in similar circumstances.

Jon didn't like the answer and looked away. He stared off into the distance. Jaime was pleased to see that the boy was smart enough to control his temper and organize his thoughts. Too many nobleborn were unable to do either, irrespective of their age.

"The Liddles are a mountain clan loyal to my father. We share blood a few generations back. They are friendly to the Watch. They have an outpost to the south. We were taking our time to complete the survey the king ordered you to undertake. Even going slow, we have sufficient food to reach them. They'll take the smallfolk in. They'll resupply us and give us fresh mounts. We can both save these people and complete your assigned task, Ser Jaime."

Jaime looked at Jon carefully for a few moments before sighing. "You'll make a fine knight and a good lord some day, Jon." He rubbed his forehead. After his conversation with Lord Mormont and Benjen, Jon had agreed to serve as his squire. He didn't want him to change his mind. "Someday, though, you'll have to make the hard decisions."

Jon looked at him levelly. He reminded Jaime every bit of Rhaegar. "But today?"

Jaime put a hand on his shoulder and smiled with pride. To his surprise, it wasn't an act. "Today, we'll be knights, good and true. We'll both save these smelly, flea and disease ridden, worthless peasants and comply with the fat king's last order to me."

Jon didn't even blink when he heard Jaime insulting King Robert. He supposed he'd done nothing to hide his dislike of their bloated, drunken, whoremonger of a monarch. Maybe he should take Tyrion's advice and work on hiding his thoughts a bit more.

He dismissed the thought quickly. After all, as Jon had reminded him he had knightly duties, one of which was to always speak the truth. Robert was a worthless carcass of a king and more people should say so.

He wondered if Lord Stark would force Tyrion's hand. He more than half hoped Lord Stark clung to his precious, hypocritical honor and unwavering loyalty to Robert, and forced the boy to remain at the Wall. If he did, if he took the choice from the boy, he'd raise his banner in rebellion, something he was less adverse to the better he got to know Jon.

They'd likely lose but maybe they wouldn't. Either way, it would make a glorious song. Even if he was cast in the role of a villain by the victors. He was confident he'd make a magnificent villain, one that would cause maidens to be torn between swooning and fleeing.

The next morning they redistributed the supplies on the packhorses, freeing up several of the beasts. Jaime ordered the most feeble villagers to ride triple and placed them in the center of the column. The others walked to the side.

He divided his men in four groups in a diamond formation with the column in the center. He made sure every one of his men, even the ones he lacked faith in, wore a shield and held a spear. Maybe they'd get lucky and accidentally gut a wildling if attacked.

It was bitter cold when he followed Jon and a ranger as they led their party south toward the Liddle outpost. Ghost was far in the distance. He truly hated the north.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

SJ SJ SJ

Tyrion was so incredibly grateful when he arrived at the Lannister manse just outside King’s Landing. Months in a saddle and sleeping on the cold hard ground, months in a hard cot the black brothers called a bed, and weeks confined to a ship’s small cabin had worn him down. He needed a real bed, stuffed with down and covered in silk sheets.

He didn’t even want a whore. Which was distressing. I must be getting old, he mourned. He resolved to get a good night’s sleep and visit a brothel tomorrow. His honor as a man demanded it.

The manse was an ancient building, sheltered in the shade of many trees. A babbling brook ran parallel to the west wall. King’s Landing could be seen in the distance. Thankfully, it was far enough away that the stench of the city didn’t destroy the tranquility of the country estate.

The manse was the home of the Lannisters when they visited the capital of Westeros. At least, it was their home when they did not occupy the Red Keep and the Tower of the Hand. It had been decades since they’d held such a lofty office.

Tyrion was displeased when he was greeted at the door by his cousin, Cleos Frey. While he arguably had a right to occupy the manse, being the son of Genna Lannister, Cleos was an opportunist and hardly clever. It was likely he had been depleting the stock of good wine and entertaining guests at Lannister expense. He’d have to write to his father to see if he was aware of this house guest. He suspected not.

“Cousin, it is good to see you!” Cleos exclaimed. His narrow, rat-like face was beet red and his breath reeked of wine. When he looked about he seemed relieved to see that Tyrion was without an escort. Definitely here without permission, Tyrion noted grimly.

“Cousin,” Tyrion responded as he dismounted from the nag he’d procured at the harbor. The horse was on its last legs and would doubtless soon be sold off for its meat to the poorer inhabitants of the city. “Your presence is an unexpected but welcome surprise. Is Uncle Kevan in?”

Cleos looked uncomfortable. “Our uncle left two weeks passed. Rest assured, he received your raven and arranged for a second shipload of recruits to be sent to the Night’s Watch.”

Tyrion observed him critically for a moment. His information was hardly news. His uncle had confined those who had taken the offered bounty to a hulk moored deep in the harbor. Yoren had been ecstatic when the harbor master let him know the men were his. “Were you in attendance when Uncle Kevan left?” He questioned curiously.

His Frey cousin shifted nervously. He cleared his throat. “Not as such. I’d dined with him once or twice but had otherwise spent my time in the city. When I stopped by to invite him on a hunt, I’d just missed him. I thought I’d occupy the family home in his absence to ensure the servants didn’t run off with the silver.”

In other words, Kevan had refused him as a house guest and he waited until their uncle had left for Lannisport to slide unnoticed into the relative comfort of the manse. No matter. He could make use of him.

He smiled at his least favorite cousin. “Let us withdraw to solar. I have a task for you and need to write a letter.”

It took only a few minutes to pen the note. It simply read:

Lord Stark,

I would like to discuss your kinsman, Jon Snow, at your earliest convenience. I’ll be staying at my family’s manse. My cousin, Cleos Frey, can provide you direction.

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion was fairly sure it would provoke an immediate response. He’d underlined ‘kinsman’ just to be sure. Tyrion had little faith in Eddard Stark’s mental acuity. He needed a heavy hint that his paternity of Jon was in question. 

Cleos looked put out when Tyrion handed him the sealed letter. Tyrion assumed his presence was interfering with his cousin’s efforts to deplete the Lannister wine cellar. Tyrion sympathized. He planned to make his own raid on the cellar once he’d bathed and eaten.

“Cousin, surely one of the servants can play messenger? It is unseemly for a knight of my rank to engage in so menial a task.”

Tyrion avoided answering immediately and instead rang the bell that sat on his father's sometimes desk. There was an immediate response when a boy dressed in the red and gold entered silently. Tyrion approved.

His father paid well. The servants knew if they wanted to keep being paid well, they’d needed to remain silent and out of sight until needed, and then their presence was required immediately. His father’s training obviously still held.

“Draw a hot bath. I’ll be occupying the master suite.” 

The boy nodded silently as he glided out. Cleos winced. Tyrion suppressed a smirk. No doubt his cousin’s possessions were being moved as they spoke.

“Cleos, a mere servant is unlikely to gain immediate access to the Lord Hand. This task was set for us by my father. If you don’t wish to lend aid, it can wait until the morning. And my next raven will inform Lord Tywin of your objections.”

Tyrion took great satisfaction in seeing his cousin’s face pale. Tywin Lannister had a well deserved reputation for both valuing his blood above all else and ruthlessly crushing any challenge to his authority. As Cleos was Tywin’s nephew, his life was safe. On the other hand, he had other ways of punishing family. 

Tyrion was very familiar with his father’s creative ruthlessness towards those of his own blood. His time in charge of Casterly Rock’s sewers was a relatively kind punishment. Tywin was capable of far worse, Tyrion recalled as he forcibly suppressed the memory of Tysha. It was too painful. Gods, he needed some wine.

“No, of course not, dear cousin,” Cleos babbled. “I had no idea the task was assigned by Lord Tywin. I’ll deliver it immediately."

Tyrion smiled as Cleos fled the manse. Even the least intelligent in the family knew enough to fear his father.

Cleos must have been especially effective as a messenger as a servant entered the library not a handful of hours later announcing that Lord Stark was at the gate. Tyrion suppressed a groan as he regretfully pushed away his goblet of an exceptionally fine Dornish red. 

He’d thought to see Lord Stark tomorrow or the day after at the latest. Northmen and their bloody minded directness, Tyrion grumbled silently.

“I’ll meet him in the garden,” Tyrion responded with a sigh. His legs ached, his back hurt and he was exhausted. He’d much rather have this meeting after a full night’s sleep.

Eddard Stark was as grim and foreboding as ever. Their similar demeanor alone created a superficial resemblance between the northern lord and Jon, and helped sell the lie that Jon was his bastard. Their resemblance went deeper in that both were tall, dark haired, and had long, melancholy faces that appeared to be cut from ice. 

But once one knew the relationship was a lie, the differences were easy to spot. While both had grey eyes, Jon’s were so dark they might as well have been black in certain light. Stark’s hair fell straight, while Jon’s fell in curls. Stark was powerfully built, while Jon was slender and graceful. These and a dozen other subtle differences proclaimed Rhaegar Targaryen as Jon’s father, not Eddard Stark, for those who knew what to look for. 

All it took to connect the dots was for the observer to be aware of the relationship in the first place. No wonder he kept Jon far away from the king and his party when they visited Winterfell.

“Lord Stark, thank you for visiting me so quickly,” Tyrion began smoothly, suppressing his exhaustion. “As the city is still standing, it seems you were able to dispose of the wildfire.”

“Yes. The kingdom owes you a debt, Lord Tyrion.” The northern lord’s face was a mask of ice and his voice sounded like gravel.

Tyrion waved his hand as if dismissing the comment. “The kingdom owes me nothing. It owes my brother everything. It was he who stopped the Mad King from igniting the caches buried beneath the city. It was he who kept silent so others could not finish what the Mad King started, while the king and his loyal men carefully disposed of the threat. You owe him your thanks, not me.”

Lord Stark looked momentarily confused. “I agree that Ser Jaime’s murder of Aerys is cast in a much more favorable light. I admit that I was wrong in my belief as to why he did what he did. But we knew nothing of the wildfire until I received your raven near three moons past. And the alchemists assure me it grows more potent over time, not less. His silence imperiled the city.” As he spoke his voice grew grimmer and more certain. “He has much to answer for when he returns.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Lord Stark, you do not know how the game is played. It will be the death of you sooner or later.”

Stark’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. Tyrion thought it impossible but the icy demeanor of the northern lord intensified. “I don’t take threats well, Lannister,” he growled.

He sat on a bench. He grieved for the lack of intelligence in the taller man. It made things so much more difficult. “I make no threats, Lord Stark. It is merely an observation. A player of the game would have correctly interpreted my comment as being part of what I want by way of reward. Since you lack the wit to understand how things are done, I’ll be more direct.”

Stark did not remove his hand from his sword. “Directness would be appreciated, Lannister.”

Tyrion smiled tiredly. “I’m not your enemy, Lord Stark. I will protect yours, if you protect mine. I will aid you, if you aid me. It is very simple.”

“And what protection and what aid can you provide me?” Stark growled. Tyrion could almost hear his teeth grinding. Not for the first time, he wondered how Eddard Stark had become a brother in all but blood to Robert Baratheon. He had far more in common with the king’s middle brother, Stannis.

He pulled his hand through his hair in frustration as he closed his eyes thinking of how to say what needed to be said without Stark removing his head from his shoulders. He says he wants directness so I might as well be direct, he thought as he gathered his courage.

“You will do me the favor of convincing the king to release Jaime from his oath from the Kingsguard. You will publicly acknowledge that my brother is a hero and saved King’s Landing. You will approve Jon Snow serving as my brother’s squire. You will convince the king to legitimize Jon and give him a name, either Lannister or Stark. If Stark, you will give him vast holdings along the western coast of the North and negotiate a marriage for him to Asha Greyjoy. If Lannister, you will require my father to name him Lord of Castamere and marry him to Joy Hill, my Uncle Gerion’s bastard daughter.” 

Tyrion made sure he spoke calmly and placidly, though he kept his hands flat on the marble bench. It wouldn’t do to let Lord Stark see his sweaty palms. It would betray his fear and anxiety. He and Jaime were playing a dangerous game. 

More so he, as he hadn’t disclosed half of what he intended to Jaime. Helping Joy was one of his many personal goals. If his brother could seek redemption by elevating a bastard, why shouldn’t he do the same? 

The reference to a possible Greyjoy marriage was intentionally unpalatable, so that Stark would be more inclined to consider a marriage between bastards. Greyjoy’s would rebel at the first opportunity and would be a real danger if he handed them a Targaryen prince to rally behind.

Tyrion was certain that Lord Stark was a man who rarely smiled. He was almost certain that he almost did so, as he caught a slight twitch of his lips, quickly suppressed. “Why would I do that?” he asked, with just a trace of amusement in his voice.

Time to roll the dice, the smallest Lannister thought anxiously. “If you don’t, my brother will raise the banners in rebellion. He will name Jon Snow the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.” Tyrion was proud that his voice sounded so calm and level. He felt anything but. 

Jaime had definitely not threatened rebellion. He’d only fight if Stark tried to force Jon back to the Wall. His only real objective was to get Jon to squire for him. Tyrion thought Jaime thought too small for the size of the secret they’d be protecting.

Eddard Stark froze a moment. There was a look of absolute panic on his face. Then he relaxed. “That’s a fool's quest. No one would believe him. No one would follow him.”

“Really?” Tyrion replied sardonically, feeling even more certain he was on the right track when Stark didn’t try to deny the truth. He was too honest by half. “My brother detected the resemblance between Jon and Rhaegar after only an hour or two in a practice yard. How long will it take those who knew him better? How long will it take those people to reevaluate your story and wonder why three Kingsguard were at the Tower of Joy? Wouldn’t their sworn duty require them to be at Dragonstone to protect the Queen and her children, after Aerys, Rhaegar and his children died? How long before they arrive at the conclusion that the true King was at the Tower of Joy, that their duty required that they stay, and that they die defending him? No Lord Stark, once the words are spoken many will quickly find them to be true. Swords in their thousands will flock to Jon.”

Tyrion held his breath as Stark contemplated him. Tyrion could almost see the rusty gears turn in what little mind Stark possessed. “Your words would kill him. Any rebellion is doomed to failure,” he responded, though his voice was filled with uncertainty.

“Is it?” Tyrion rebutted. He was in his element. “Will you march against your nephew? Would you become a kinslayer? Would Dorne march to protect the Usurper? No, I think both Northern and Dornish spears would stay home. That leaves the Crownlands, Riverlands, the Erie, the Westerlands, the Iron Isles, and the Stormlands to decide the day, all filled with many Targaryen loyalists looking for a leader. Jon could be that leader.”

Stark shook his head in denial. “Scattered remnants. Robert would crush them in weeks.”

Gaining in confidence, Tyrion laughed. “Maybe, but you fail to consider the many slights your king has inflicted upon my father and my father’s love for Jaime. If Jaime marched, my father and his bannermen would follow. And the Tyrells, who owe everything they have to the Targaryens, or the Greyjoys, who hate you and Robert with a passion, or both, might decide to adopt Jon’s cause. All it would take is a marriage or two, Asha Greyjoy to Jaime and Margaery Tyrell to Jon. Imagine it, three of the Seven Kingdoms plus thousands of scattered Targaryen loyalists marching on King’s Landing. Robert has been a poor king. Not many would mourn his loss. It would be a much closer thing than you care to admit, Lord Stark.” 

Stark sat down heavily next to Tyrion. “You would condemn tens of thousands to death, Lannister. Why?” His cold hard voice was almost pleading.

“Because my brother wants to honor Rhaegar’s memory and has decided to do so by protecting his son. Something you have woefully failed to do, Lord Stark,” Tyrion said simply.

The northern lord recoiled as if slapped. “I have protected Jon,” Stark growled. “I raised him as my own son, safe behind Winterfell's walls. Safe in his anonymity.”

“Protected him?” Tyrion couldn’t help but giggle. “You condemned him. What do you think would happen to a fourteen year old boy surrounded by rebels, murderers and rapists? Did you know Castle Black’s Master at Arms is Ser Alliser Thorne? He was and still is a diehard Targaryen loyalist. He hates you and Robert to the depths of his soul. The man was plotting Jon’s death, thinking him your son, from the moment Jon stepped onto the Wall.”

“The Night Watch is an honorable institution,” Stark denied heatedly. “Yes, there are some troubling elements, but Benjen would protect him.”

Tyrion snorted. “Your brother is the First Ranger. He spends more time north of the Wall than on it. He’s in no position to protect Jon.” He fumbled open his doublet and withdrew the two letters given him by Benjen and Mormont. “You might find these enlightening. Admit it, Lord Stark. You condemned Jon to die. My brother won’t allow it.”

Stark looked at Tyrion as if seeing him for the first time. He ignored the letters, though he took them into his hand. “You, Ser, have a distorted view of the world.” He stood, stuffing the letters behind his belt. “I won’t be part of it. I have to believe that if Jaime Lannister values Jon so much, he won’t throw Jon’s life away in some fool rebellion. Send Jon back to Winterfell. I’ll ensure his safety before I return him to Castle Black.” 

Tyrion watched Lord Stark begin to walk away before calling out. “Lord Stark, what will your friend the king do when he discovers who Jon really is? Not to Jon, but to you and your children? Do you think your friendship will survive? I don’t. I think it more likely that a drunken whoremonger who pardons the murderers of infants is more likely to destroy you and your family for your betrayal. I think you know that, which is why you’ve chosen to hide Jon and lie about who he is, why you’ve chosen to send him to the Wall where he’ll soon be forgotten.”

Stark stopped. He didn’t turn around. “You don’t know Robert.”

Tyrion stood. “I don’t have to, Lord Stark. I know his type. If you want to work out a mutually beneficial resolution, one that protects Jon, protects your children, and protects the realm, including your worthless king, my gate will be open in the morning. If you don’t make an appearance, I’ll assume you decided to trust in the mercy of a man who dreams of killing dragonspawn nightly and the fortunes of war. Choose wisely, Lord Stark.”

He watched the grim lord leave the manse, his stomach rolling. He hoped Stark would come to his senses, but the man was truly an irrational fool. He acted in his own self-interest, and the interest of his friend Robert, while ignoring the plight of the kingdom and sacrificing the future of his young nephew, and had the gall to pretend it was honor. Tyrion shook his head in disbelief.

Tyrion decided the only thing to calm his nerves was to go back to that flagon of Dornish red. No matter what happened in the morning, at least he’d have a very fine wine in his belly.

His dreams were troubled and he had difficulty sleeping, despite his exhaustion. When he woke the sun was high in the sky and Stark had not made an appearance. 

He felt paralyzed and sick to his stomach. There would be war, he thought numbly. The man was delusional if he really thought Jaime wouldn’t act on his threat.

He went through the motions of breaking his fast. He could hardly keep his food down. Even the prospect of visiting a brothel was not enough to settle his nerves. I’m definitely getting old, he thought morosely.

Finally, he pushed his plate away in disgust and gave orders for his horse to be saddled and an escort gathered. He needed to leave for Casterly Rock. He’d much rather be there than here when his brother began to beat the drums of war. 

He mentally went through a list of nearby lords who were friendly to his father and would let him send a message. Jaime and his father both needed to be warned.

Just as he and his men were about to leave the manse, Lord Stark appeared with two men by his side. He pulled even with Tyrion. “We need to talk, Lannister,” he said grimly.

A weight was lifted from his shoulders. “It would be my pleasure, Lord Stark.”


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

SJ SJ SJ

Tywin Lannister had been enjoying Tyrion’s absence for many months. Instead of having to endure the japes and constant scandals of Joanna’s murderer, he had the peace and quiet necessary to manage his extensive holdings. 

Most of the younger generation of Lannisters had little concept of the time it took to effectively rule their lands. As long as they continued to receive their generous allowances, they lacked either the wit or incentive to ask any questions. 

Which suited Tywin. Kevan was the only one he had any faith in when it came to putting family first. As a consequence, he was the only Lannister who he’d willingly share power with, though he had hopes for Jaime if he ever managed to free himself of that damned white cloak.

As to Tyrion, he possessed the wit but not the moral fortitude. It was quite pleasant not having to deal with the never ending litanies of shame Tyrion inflicted upon his family name. If his armsmen never again dragged his wretched son into his presence reeking of wine and the foul perfume of whores, he could die content.

When a page approached him and announced Tyrion’s return, he groaned inwardly. He didn’t let a trace of upset make its way to his face, however. He was the Lord of Casterly Rock. It would not do for mere servants to see the many conflicting emotions that battled beneath the surface at the mention of Tyrion’s name.

“Instruct him to attend me,” he instead said in a hard voice. He’d spent years perfecting his persona of cold, impassive ruthlessness. He wasn’t going to let Tyrion’s mere presence undo that work.

As the boy scampered off to locate his misshapen son, the bane of his existence, he organized his desk. Most of the papers and scrolls were pushed aside, albeit into neat orderly piles organized by subject and priority. He leaned backed and steepled his fingers as he looked coolly toward the door. He kept his back straight and face still. He needed to center himself.

While he would never admit it publicly or privately, he was well aware that Tyrion was the most dangerous of his children, the most like himself in mind if not body. Power was rooted in the perception of others. If they believed that he ruled and they followed, they would create the reality without him having to lift a finger. 

He’d spent his life inculpating the belief in his power in his children and kinsmen. He’d paid particular attention to ensure that Tyrion was especially cognizant of their respective roles. It wouldn’t do for him to betray weakness before the most dangerous of his progeny. The mummer’s farce that was power could only end with the embrace of the Stranger.

The page must have been quick delivering his summons as the men that guarded his door announced his son’s presence in mere minutes. Tywin made a note to reward the lad. 

It also gave him the excuse not to immediately look up as Tyrion made his way into the room and stood before his desk. He made a few other notes about unimportant odds and ends, his quill scratching, before he deigned to lift his gaze, returning his fingers to their steepled position. 

It was another lesson. Tyrion waited upon him. He did not await Tyrion.

Tyrion was still the ill-made creature he’d despised since birth, but he’d improved himself. Rather than being covered in the stink of a brothel, he was covered in the dust and grime of the road. Long may it continue. He’d have to find other, more productive tasks for him that kept him well away from the Rock.

“So the prodigal son returns,” he said in a slow and measured tone. “Where is your brother?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Last I saw of my knightly sibling, he’d taken a rather liberal view of King Robert’s orders. He was gallivanting around the North playing at knight errant. He didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to return.”

Tywin frowned. His information was less than helpful. “So where have you been? Other than spending my coin to send smallfolk to the Wall.”

He remembered that the wastrel of a dwarf had sent a message by raven some months ago claiming he had a way to release Jaime from his vows to the Kingsguard. That was mere fantasy, of course. His own efforts had proven fruitless and it defied belief that Tyrion could succeed where he had failed. 

Why Robert insisted on keeping the boy in a white cloak when he couldn’t stand his presence was beyond him. Even his offer of a half million golden dragons to release him from his vows had been rejected, without even the courtesy of a counter.

Like Tyrion’s report, Jaime’s sporadic messages contained no real information. The last missive he'd received from his eldest son and preferred heir tersely stated he and his squire were headed toward Bear Island to investigate the feasibility of resupplying the Wall from the sea. 

His son had spent months along the Wall. He’d spent even more months traveling among the mountain clans of the North. Now he was traveling to some remote island. It irked him that he could not determine what his son was doing which was more important than his duty to either the Crown or his family. Why he was wandering aimlessly in the far north was a mystery he had hoped Tyrion could shed some light on. 

Apparently, he and Tyrion had something in common beyond their name. They were both mystified by Jaime’s recent behavior.

Tywin was stunned when his musings were interrupted by Tyrion, who, in a blatant disregard for his authority, took a seat when none had been offered. “I’ve been busy making a deal to have Jaime released from his vows,” he said smugly. He reached into his doublet, withdrew multiple scrolls, and pushed one across the desk. “It only remains to be seen if you will accept the terms.”

Tywin had been prepared to rebuke the foul thing that dared call himself his son, but he stilled himself after hearing his words. He made no move to touch the scroll, but kept his gaze level and impassive as he struggled to resolve his inner turmoil without betraying a hint of it on his face. He resisted swallowing. He refused to blink. Perception is power he reminded himself, suppressing the desire to rip open the scroll.

Once the silence had lasted long enough to make Tyrion shift uncomfortably, he slowly reached out and collected the scroll, breaking its seal. He was proud to see his hand did not tremble. The message was brief:

Lord Lannister,

King Robert, the first of his name, etc., would be pleased to release Ser Jaime Lannister from his oaths and duties as Kingsguard, and return him to your family as heir, provided that you accept certain terms. Your son, Tyrion, serves as the King’s messenger in this regard. There will be no haggling. We are not merchants. The papers have already been signed and sealed by both His Grace and myself in my capacity as Hand. They need only be delivered to you and Ser Jaime. Send a raven if you accept.

Lord Eddard Stark  
Hand of the King

Tywin stared at the words he’d spent the last twenty years dreaming he’d see. It was only a lifetime of practice and habit that prevented him from smiling. 

Instead, he did something he never had before. He poured his least favored son a goblet of wine and pushed it toward him.

“What are the terms?” he asked, keeping his face impassive as he looked at the son who may have accomplished the impossible. He didn’t know whether to embrace him or strangle him, so instead remained motionless.

“Joy is legitimized as a Lannister and is to be married forthwith, by proxy if he’s not personally available, to Jon Snow, Lord Stark’s bastard.” Tyrion placed another two scrolls on the desk between them. The legitimization decree and Stark’s consent for his bastard to wed, Tywin presumed. He did not reach out to inspect them, instead contending himself with gazing impassively at his son. “In the meantime, they are to be betrothed until his consent to the marriage can be obtained, even if only by raven. The boy will thereafter take the name Lannister.”

That was a surprise. “Not Stark?” Tywin interjected. “He wants to insert a Stark cuckoo into the Lannister nest?” 

Tyrion grinned. It was a twisted, malicious thing. “Stark is a fool, father. His loss is our gain. I know Jon Snow. He’s an exceptional young man. He'll grow into a knight that many lords would give their left arm for; loyal, brave, diligent and clever. He’s serving as Jaime’s squire as we speak.” 

This caused Tywin to arch his eyebrow. Slightly. His son’s snobbery concerning potential squires was a continual sore point. So far as Tywin was concerned, Jaime was letting valuable contacts go unmade. Contacts which could grow into desperately needed alliances as Jon Arryn had done too good of a job isolating Lannister influence. It was insufferable. Worse, Jaime appeared to delight in turning potential allies into foes, with his ridicule and insults, if any so much as raised the issue with him. If Jaime had accepted the boy as his squire, he must have talent.

There had to be more. Joy was the only thing left of his brother, Gerion. She was a delightful girl. On occasion he’d even admit a slight fondness for her, despite her bastard status. It was the only reason he allowed her to remain at the Rock once her father vanished on his fool’s quest. But despite her Lannister blood, tainted as is she was, her hand in marriage was of only modest value.

“And?” he prompted as he turned both the obvious insult and the potential gain of a competent, loyal bannerman over in his mind. Snow serving as Jaime’s squire, and eventually being knighted by him, might be a sufficient wedge to drive between the boy and his father, he mused.

“You are to promptly restore Castamere and make certain improvements to the fief, at Lannister expense, which will be granted to Joy and Jon, and their issue after them. If their line shall fail, the estate will pass through Jon to his trueborn Stark brothers. They will be awarded their own coat of arms to distinguish them from the main Lannister line. Jon will swear oaths to you as your bannerman.” Tyrion looked smug and triumphant as he spoke, his eyes dancing with unconcealed glee. 

There it was, Tywin thought. That was the payoff Stark wanted to free Jaime. It was too valuable a holding to be awarded outside the family, so he sought to make it more palatable by joining his bastard to the Lannisters. He protected his bastard by ensuring it would be inherited by a Stark if the boy should suffer an ‘accident’ or mishap.

Castamere was not too dissimilar to Casterly Rock. It was built into a mountain like the Rock, though on a much smaller scale. It was a wealthy holding, with gold and silver mines in abundance, and a strong fortress. At least it was until he flooded the place and drowned all within it for the insult they’d given his father. 

Songs were sung of his vengeance. He’d paid good gold to make sure of it. Reputation was everything.

He made sure to hold his son’s gaze for several moments as he turned the offer over in his mind. While Stark using the Lannister name and lands to profit his bastard was an insult, as a whole it was a very good offer. He paid no gold to the Crown. He’d already intended to eventually restore Castamere, though he had planned to someday award it to Lancel, Kevan’s son, if the boy proved fit. 

Though Stark wanting a Lannister bastard as wife for his own bastard was surprising. He would have presumed he’d want a better marriage to secure his bastard’s line. It was very curious.

“Why not give the boy the Stark name? Why the Lannister name and why Joy?

“He doesn’t want Jon to be able to challenge his trueborn brothers. The boy is too gifted. Elements within the North might rally to Snow if he was made a Stark. They’d never accept him if he was a Lannister.” Tyrion sneered. “He wants Joy and not a trueborn Lannister to reduce the social standing of their children. Legitimate or not, Lannisters or not, their children will still be the children of two bastards. It will take a few generations to completely erase the stigma. In that time their northern roots will wither and Jon’s descendants will be all Lannister, and in no position to challenge Robb Stark’s descendants.”

Tywin nodded in understanding. He had to admit the Hand was being cleverer than he thought him capable. He elevated his son at Lannister expense while at the same time negating him as a rival for his trueborn children. He didn’t think Eddard Stark had it in him. 

The important part of the offer, what made it more than palatable, was that Castamere stayed within the family. Though their children would have to be fostered at the Rock to ensure they learned proper family values. 

The only real risk was if Joy failed to bear the bastard children. Then he’d have to deal with the wolves. 

That was not overly concerning, he decided. A pride of lions was more than a match for a pack of wolves.

“How does this benefit Robert?” he asked quietly. “Why this deal?”

“It doesn’t,” his clever malformed dwarf of a son gloated. “King Robert approved the deal as a reward for Jaime, while at the same time both insulting our house and elevating Jon as a favor for Stark.”

He nodded thoughtfully as he considered matters. He would obviously have to repay the insult, though Jon was temporarily safe from his vengeance. Castamere possibly passing to the Starks was a strong inducement for him to keep the boy alive and fathering children. At least until his line was secure. Then he could have an accident, if it proved convenient. 

“And why would the King want to reward Jaime? I did not think His Grace held my son so dear.” The exact opposite was true, Tywin knew. The king and Jaime had a mutual loathing for one another. 

When Tyrion explained that Aerys had packed wildfire beneath the city streets, it was all Tywin could do to merely nod impassively. If he imbibed more wine than he intended at hearing the news, he thought he could be forgiven under the circumstances. 

Once his silent shock passed, he couldn’t help to think that perhaps the gods loved him after all. If Aerys hadn’t removed him from the office, if Robert had made him Hand as he wished, he would have been standing atop that potential inferno. He suppressed a shudder.

He would pay minstrels to travel throughout Westeros singing of his son’s deeds. Jaime would be acclaimed a hero within a few moons turn. More importantly, the Lannister reputation as a whole would shine. 

The unpleasantness concerning Elia and her children could be forgotten. Which it should be.

“Anything else?” he asked, his mind already considering what needed to be done.

Tyrion drank deeply before he spoke. “Two things. First, the Hand has also agreed to support your ascension to the Small Council when an opening occurs.” He rudely smacked his lips with obvious pleasure after he finished with his glass and then poured himself another. 

Normally, Tywin would have not tolerated such behavior, but Tyrion had earned a small amount of latitude. As his son was no doubt aware and intended to take full advantage.

“And the other?” He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“When I first became aware of the possibility that I could make this work, I was in the North. Even if I succeeded, it wouldn’t matter if Jaime didn’t cooperate. So I asked him what he wanted.” Tyrion’s manic behavior seemed to evaporate. He put his goblet back on the desk. He looked serious. Tywin was vaguely impressed. Tyrion should control himself more often. It suited him. “He wants to be his own man. He’ll take advice from you, but in the end, he makes his own decisions. On everything. Including, for example, whom he marries.”

At first blush, he was inclined to fury. How dare his son dictate to him! Everything he did, every sacrifice he made and required others to make, were for the benefit of the family. Tyrion must have sensed his suddenly intense emotion as he flinched back into his chair. Tywin quickly mastered himself, though he was pleased to see the fear he inspired in Tyrion despite the boy’s false confidence.

It wasn’t important who Jaime married, at least so long as he didn’t follow in Tyrion’s footsteps and marry a whore. And his eldest son had more sense than that. What was important that Jaime married and fathered sons. Sons who could proudly carry the Lannister name into the future.

“He’d have to decide on a bride soon. I need Jaime as my heir. And he needs sons to secure the line.” Tywin ignored Tyrion’s hostile look, which vanished in a blink of an eye. Good. Tyrion had to realize he’d never inherit the Rock. He’d never allow a twisted thing like him to sit in the high seat of his ancestors. His cursed body was walking proof of the weakness in their blood. It was for the best if his demented spawn drank and whored himself into an early grave. Preferably outside of his sight. “But I can be somewhat patient and will accommodate any reasonable choice.”

“I think Jaime might accept that,” Tyrion replied cautiously. He was back to drinking wine too quickly, Tywin noted scornfully. But that was to be expected of such a cursed creature.

Despite Tyrion’s many failings, Tywin leaned back and let something like approval pass across his face. The monster may have killed his mother, and he definitely had loathsome manners and overly high expectations, but he’d done good service for the house brokering this deal. 

Jaime would be free to resume his rightful position as heir and safeguard the future of the Lannister name. And the cost and risk, all things considered, was minimal. 

He’d take a dozen bastard Starks into the family if it freed Jaime to serve as his heir. He’d even swallow the insult, for now. He’d repay it tenfold when the opportunity presented.

He’d send a raven accepting the terms immediately. Joy would marry Stark’s bastard the moment he and Jaime entered the Rock. Sooner if his wandering son could prevail upon his squire to send his written consent.

He needed to speak with Kevan. While he'd accept the offer immediately, he needed to consider the long term implications that came with it so they could put contingencies in place. His younger brother was always the voice of reason and foresight, second only to Joanna.

“You’ve done well, Tyrion,” Tywin said gravely. His disappointment of a son had proven himself worthy of the Lannister name, and the gold he squandered on gambling, wine and whores, if only on this one occasion. It was enough. “You’ll be rewarded.”

In fairness, Tyrion was due a reward of some sort. He had just the thing, he thought with the first hint of a smile since his son entered the room. 

“I’m increasing your allowance. Try not to squander it. You will also serve as Castamere’s steward and castellan until Jon comes of age. Your first task is to see that it’s suitably repaired and the mines opened. I’ll provide men and gold. You’ll start immediately.” 

Tywin thought Tyrion’s work improving the drains and sewers of the Rock suggested he might be well suited to accomplish the task. After all, the reward for good work was more work, as tradesmen liked to say. It had the added benefit that the foul dwarf would be removed from his presence even as he honored the agreement. 

A Lannister pays his debts. All of them.

He was disappointed to see that Tyrion did not take it ill when he announced his new duties. Instead, his eyes lit with anticipation. He’d hoped that removing him from the comforts of Casterly Rock, and the taverns and brothels of Lannisport, would have been perceived as a burden. 

Perhaps the months of travel had hardened his youngest son and taught him the value of duty. He could only hope.

JS JS JS

AN: In canon, Castamere was eventually awarded to the Spicers as a payoff for their treason against Robb. So Tywin is willing to grant it outside the family under the right circumstances. I think he’d consider Castamere in exchange for Jaime being freed from his vows and able to succeed him as Lord, while keeping it (somewhat) in the family, to be good value.

AN: For those who are curious, Tyrion is not being 100% honest with Tywin (or Jaime or Ned). He’s taking advantage of the situation, and their inability or unwillingness to communicate directly with one another, to work his own agenda which will become clearer soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter takes place almost two years after chapter 1. I didn’t want to dwell on the minutiae of Jaime and Jon’s travels, so this serves to give a quick update on them as well as Winterfell. Arya is now about 10 years old, Joy is 15, Jon and Robb are about 16 for frame of reference. Chapter 8 will be contemporaneous to this one in Jon’s POV and serve a similar purpose.

SJ SJ SJ

Arya was bored. Bored and feeling betrayed. 

Mother had stopped her lessons with Ser Rodrick because she had begun to skip her lessons with the septa. Robb refused to intervene. He took mother’s side, claiming that she could not just pick and choose the lessons she wanted to attend.

Arya didn’t understand it. Who cared how straight or neat her stitches were? And how could she focus on stitching when the septa kept demanding she repeat passages from the Seven Pointed Star? 

It was unfair. The septa was stupid. Mother was stupid. Even Robb was stupid. Embroidery was the stupidest thing of all. 

She was so bored she’d even tried to play with little Rickon but he was boring now too. All he did was growl at Shaggydog and Shaggydog growled back. He ignored her when she tried to join in the growling, which was unfair because she knew she was good at growling. 

Even Nymeria was being boring. Her direwolf had watched the triangle of growling with a confused expression, head cocked to the side, before yelping, and running through Winterfell’s main gate into the Wolfswood. She knew it would be days before she saw her wolf again. 

She wondered if this is what betrayal felt like. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought Nymeria was laughing at her. Traitor. Nymeria and Robb both.

She really missed Bran and Jon. Bran would have played at knights with her and wouldn’t have minded getting hit with sticks. She angrily wiped away a tear. Starks did not cry, she reminded herself fiercely.

Like Bran, Jon had been gone for almost two years and like Bran every day she missed him. He was the only sibling she had left that wasn’t boring. He always had time for her and was always interesting. 

He even sent letters sometimes describing his travels. The Wall, the mountain clans, Bear Island, Seaguard, Riverrun, and a dozen other places in between. He and Ser Jaime were headed for the Vale next.

It was unfair. She wasn’t allowed to visit Riverrun even though it was her grandfather’s castle. At least Jon described it in his letters. She saved every letter and read them over and over until she’d memorized them. 

Though he was sometimes stupid. She still didn’t know how he got married to a girl he’d never seen. Or become a Lannister. And Jon wasn’t stupid so it made it even harder to understand. He was a smart and brave wolf, not a cowardly, mangy lion, and anyone who said different was stupid. 

Neither mother nor the septa could explain it clearly. Her mother got angry whenever it was brought up which Arya understood. It made her angry too. 

He obviously needed her so she could protect him from doing stupid things, like marrying strange girls he hadn’t even met. It was unfair that she couldn't be there to look after her best brother.

He’d even given her a sword, the best sword, her Needle. But mother took it when she found her practicing when she should have been stitching. When mother wrote father to complain about her, father wrote back and told mother to let her practice. In the North, women could fight, he’d said. Some of his most loyal bannermen were women, like Maege Mormont and her daughters.

She missed father almost as much as she missed Jon.

His decision made mother angry, but she couldn’t defy her lord husband. She had no choice, so Ser Rodrick gave her lessons every morning. With a wooden sword. Mother still had Needle hidden away.

So Arya was allowed to practice until mother found an excuse to stop her practicing. Stupid septa. Stupid stitches. Stupid Seven Pointed Star.

She didn’t even follow the faith of the Seven. She was a Stark. She followed the old gods, like her father and his fathers before him. The old gods didn’t need a stupid book. The old gods were found in the breeze, babbling brooks, birdsong, and a thousand other places and things. They were more interesting than the Seven. Why didn’t mother or Robb understand that?

Robb used to be fun but now he was boring. Afternoons he spent acting like a lord. He heard complaints, resolved disputes and gave orders. He had no time for Arya in the afternoon. Besides, even if she wanted to sit with him she couldn’t. Mother was there and Arya was supposed to be at her lessons with the septa.

It wasn’t fair. She thought she could give Robb better advice than mother. Mother was from the south and didn’t understand the North. No one in the North cared what the Book of the Seven Pointed Star said. Quoting it to resolve Northern problems just made mother sound stupid, though father’s bannermen were too polite to say anything.

She knew Robb hated mother sitting next to him, talking about the Faith or what her father, Lord Tully, would do. Her grandfather was a fish, not a wolf. No one in the North cared about the opinions of a fish. But Robb loved mother. So he let her stay and speak even though he made a painful face when she did. Arya thought it served him right for being so boring.

Robb could have been fun in the morning but he wasn’t. He spent his mornings practicing war with their father’s sworn men. But he ignored her, even though she woke up extra early to practice at the same time. Even his men ignored her when they were training. They were warriors, they said and had no time for childish games. Instead she was told to hit a post with a stick. Boring.

When she complained, he said he had to act like a warrior around Stark armsmen, so he didn’t have time to coddle her. She didn’t want coddling, she wanted to fight, to spar. But he just smiled and patted her head and didn’t pay attention. 

Maester Luwin had found her a few days ago and told her she should stop being stubborn and resume her lessons with the septa. She needed to act a lady and a proper lady was not petulant. 

He didn’t like it when she told him she didn’t want to be a lady. Ladies were boring and stupid. Just like Sansa. 

Arya wondered if Jon would see Sansa when he traveled the Vale. It was unfair. He should visit her, not Sansa. 

Sansa never wrote her, though she did write mother and father, and she did send Arya presents on her name day. Mother said that Lady Rowena was teaching Sansa how to be the Lady of the Vale and so Sansa was too busy to write everyone in the family. Arya begrudgingly thought that Sansa was good at being a lady so would probably be a good Lady of the Vale when she married Jasper. 

Though Sansa marrying Jasper was stupid. She had overheard mother and the septa talk about his bad habits, habits he learned as a squire for King Robert. Arya was a Stark. Starks were brave and bold and protected the pack. So she told her mother they should find another husband for Sansa, a better husband, one that wouldn’t get drunk and father bastards. Mother told her she didn’t understand, that she was being silly and jealous. Someday, she and father would make a good marriage for her too.

Arya didn’t want mother to make any marriage for her. She didn’t want to get married. Husbands were stupid, drunk husbands even stupider, and babies the stupidest of all. 

Especially if they wouldn’t let her growl. She glared in the direction she knew Shaggydog and Rickon were hiding.

Besides, if she ever wanted a stupid baby she would just find a bear in the woods like the Mormont women. She didn’t need a drunk stupid lord as a husband to have a baby. Problem solved.

When she told mother that she’d turned red. She went on and on about sin and the Seven and bastards. It made her head hurt. She didn’t see why being a bastard was bad. Jon was a bastard and he was the best brother. She’d even think about having a husband if he was like Jon, or maybe Robb when he wasn’t being boring. 

She told her mother that, thinking it might make her happy that she wasn’t entirely opposed to a husband, but her mother just got angrier. She said she should stop pouting and go back to her lessons with the septa.

She knew she wasn’t pouting. It wasn’t pouting if she was right to be angry. 

She knew she had a problem; the septa. Starks solved problems. That’s why they were lords and used to be kings until the stupid dragons came. She briefly daydreamed of chopping the septa’s head off with Ice, before growling in frustration. Ice was in the south with father and an axe was too heavy. She would have to find another way of dealing with the septa.

She just had to be a good Stark and figure out a way to convince Robb or mother that she should be allowed to practice without stitching. But no matter how hard she thought about the problem, she couldn’t solve it. Maybe she should just push the septa down the stairs?

She was deep in thought with her legs dangling over Winterfell’s gatehouse when she saw a group of travelers with pack horses approach the castle. One of the travelers didn’t have a packhorse and he stopped to talk to the guards. She was surprised to hear her name.

“I am here to see Arya Stark,” said the bald, thin man with a large beak of a nose. He sat very straight in the saddle with his nose in the air. He had a gold hoop earring in his ear and a strange accent.

The guard said something she couldn’t hear but she knew he’d be sending the strange man to Robb. She jumped up and started running. She had to get to the Hall before he spoke with her brother. She might miss what he had to say otherwise, which wouldn’t be fair as he was here to see her.

A Stark banner hung down the inner wall facing the training yard. It was empty. Perfect. She leapt from the walkway atop the wall, catching the dangling banner as she flew through the air. She used it to slide down, dropping into the yard. 

When she snuck into the Hall, Robb hadn’t spoken with the travelers as he was still dealing with a boundary dispute between two farmers. He was sitting in father’s high seat, back straight with a sheathed sword laying across his lap. He looked stern and serious. Even though he was boring, Arya admitted her brother looked and acted like a lord. She was very proud of him. He was a true Stark. 

Eventually Robb ordered that one farmer pay another three pigs and the other had to move the boundary stone a few feet. Neither farmer liked his ruling and both left grumbling. 

Arya thought it served them both right for being stupid. If one didn’t want to move the boundary stone, then the other could keep their stupid pigs. Problem solved. They wouldn’t have needed to bother Robb if they’d just use some common sense.

Then the travelers were introduced, though the strange man stood apart. They were tinkers who wanted permission to ply their trade in Wintertown. Robb granted it with a smile. She wasn’t surprised. 

He was always talking about the importance of trade. It sounded boring to her but he had just laughed and said sometimes important things were boring but a good lord had to take care of those boring but important things. Arya had begrudgingly agreed with him. She was glad he was the lord and not her. She thought it would be much more fun to be a knight. 

Her heart clenched thinking of Bran again. She would not cry, she promised herself. She squinted her eyes to keep the tears in and bite down on her tongue to stop herself from sobbing. The pain helped, a little.

Finally, it was the strange man’s turn. When everyone’s attention was on him, Arya slipped through the crowd, keeping to the side, until she was near the high table. She used Grey Wind as cover so Robb and mother wouldn’t see her. The sleepy direwolf was almost the size of a pony and provided plenty of cover. 

Grey Wind lazily wagged his tail and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth as she burrowed into his side. She rubbed his belly so he wouldn’t betray her location to Robb. Unlike Robb, Grey Wind wasn’t a traitor. He hardly ever betrayed her presence, as long as she gave him treats and petted him.

Robb’s armsmen didn’t see her. Neither did mother nor Robb, though the strange thin man's eyes flicked over her. He gave a small, tight smile in her general direction, so she ducked her head lower. She took the opportunity to rub her face against Grey Wind’s fur, wiping away any water that may have leaked from her eyes. 

The strange man made a small bow to Robb and her mother, twisting one arm in front of him and another across his back in some stupid southern flourish, before standing straight and tall again. “I am Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos. I am here to teach Arya Stark and deliver letters from Lord Stark and the snow boy to his brother, Lord Robb.” As he spoke, his voice took on a singsong cadence, even as his nose was in the air. His eyes seemed to look down on her brother and mother, even though they sat higher on the dias. 

He pulled out two thick scrolls, one sealed in white wax and the other in red, which he offered to Robb. Arya knew the white wax would be father’s and the red Jon’s. Mother frowned at their visitor even as Robb’s face broke out into a bright smile. An armsmen took the scrolls from Syrio Forel and handed them to Robb.

Arya felt her pulse quicken. Father and Jon’s letters were normally delivered by raven and they had to be kept short as a consequence. These looked much longer. She couldn’t contain her excitement, knowing that Robb would let her read Jon’s when he was done, though he might not father’s. 

Sometimes father discussed private lord business with Robb. Which was unfair, she thought. She could keep secrets too.

Her head lifted above Grey Wind’s oversized body to get a better look. Syrio Forel’s eyes flicked over in her direction again before turning his attention back to Robb. She didn’t care. If he hadn’t betrayed her location yet she was confident that he wouldn’t now.

She wanted to make sure she didn’t lose track of the letters. Mother had accidentally ‘misplaced’ a couple of Jon’s before Maester Luwin let it slip to Robb. That was the only time she’d ever seen Robb genuinely angry with mother. They’d had hard words and mother had left the room pale and shaking. She hadn’t dared to hide her brother’s letters again, though she made no secret that she didn’t like Jon sending ravens to her children. 

“It is our pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ser Syrio,” Robb said pleasantly as he placed father’s letter before him without opening it and then broke the seal to Jon’s. He glanced casually at the contents, his smile growing even larger. He handed the scroll to their mother, who took it with a scowl before placing it to the side without looking at it. “We welcome you as our guest.” 

Robb nodded to the armsman who had originally taken the letters. He handed their visitor a small bronze bowl containing a bit of bread and salt. Syrio took a piece of bread and dipped it in the salt, before delicately placing it in his mouth. He was now protected by guest right, which he acknowledged with a nod of appreciation toward Robb.

Her mother took that moment to cut in. “How is it that you have letters both from my lord husband and Jon Lannister?” She asked in a curt voice, placing stress on Jon’s new family name of Lannister. 

Arya scowled as Robb looked uncomfortable. Arya could see the beginnings of his face taking on its pained look whenever mother acted too southern. Neither liked being reminded that Jon was a Lannister now. Arya thought they were stupid to even mention it. No matter what the fat king said, Jon was a Stark.

If mother’s tone affected him, he did not show it. “Lord Stark has retained me to give water dancing lessons to his daughter, Arya, for the next two years. I have already been paid and given my oaths,” he said nodding towards Lord Stark’s letter. “I traveled by horse and encountered the snow boy and the gold boy. We traveled together for a time. He asked me to deliver the letter to his brothers and sister.”

She jumped up, enraged. “I don’t want any stupid dancing lessons!” she shouted hotly, her cheeks aflame. She had thought father understood, but he was just another traitor! Having to both stitch and dance would be unbearable. She wasn’t Sansa.

Syrio gave her a superior smile as he glanced at her. Robb looked surprised and mother looked scandalized. 

“Arya Stark! You are supposed to be at your lessons!” Mother’s voice was high and biting. It hurt her ears. But she knew she wouldn’t get any support from her, so she ignored her in favor of dividing her glare between Syrio and Robb.

Robb was going to say something but leaned back when Syrio spoke first. “Foolish boy. I will teach and you will learn from me the water dance, a sword dance.” His smile was proud and amused at the same time.***

Arya’s rage receded. She was excited at his words and momentarily relieved. Then she processed the entirety of what he said. Her anger returned. “I’m a girl, not a stupid boy!” Her face was growing even redder. 

Syrio shrugged dismissively. “Boy, girl. You are a sword, that is all.”***

Her mother cut in. “She won’t be practicing swords any longer. She has been avoiding her lessons with the septa. There will be no more sword lessons until her attitude changes,” she said in a scathing tone. Her whole body radiated hostility toward Syrio. 

Arya decided that mother’s disapproval meant he was probably a good swordmaster and not boring. She found herself warming to the man, despite him mistaking her for a stupid boy. 

She was going to say something but Robb raised his hand to forestall her. “Mother, father sent Ser Syrio to teach Arya. We cannot gainsay him.” Arya’s spirit lifted. Her problem was solved, she thought barely containing her excitement. But his next words crushed her again. “We’ll give Arya another chance. Ser Syrio must be tired from the road. He can rest tomorrow. If Arya attends her lessons in the afternoon, she can have water dance lessons with Ser Syrio the following morning. If she misses a lesson with the septa, she won’t have a sword lesson the following morning. Each afternoon lesson pays for the following morning lesson.” 

Robb was using his lord voice. This was not fair. The septa was boring!

Her mother must have read her body language as she relaxed back in her seat. She gave her a challenging smile. “That sounds more than fair to me, son,” she said sweetly as she placed her hand on Robb’s. 

Arya hated her mother. She acted just like Sansa! She could see Robb had his pained look again, which Arya thought served him right for betraying her. “Then it’s settled. Arya, please escort Ser Syrio to the steward. We will find him accommodations within Winterfell.”

Her scowl intensified as she glared at her mother and brother. But she did remember her courtesies. “Please follow me, Ser Syrio. And welcome to Winterfell,” she said only a little bit rudely as she led him away.

As she led him in the direction of the steward, she asked curiously, “Did you train Jon too?”

He gave her a knowing smile. “For a small time. Your brother is very much an iron dancer. I showed him how to heat his iron, how to make it molten, liquid iron which is almost like water, so he dances quicker, smoother, and I think he understands now. He is clever, not like the gold boy.” He shrugged. “But it is up to him to practice. A master can only show the steps. The student must practice often to learn the dance.”

Arya nodded thoughtfully, before she asked defiantly. “And you’ll teach me? Fight with me?”

“Every morning,” he responded seriously. “But only if you attend your lessons with the septa. Much you can learn from her. Very valuable.”

Arya couldn’t prevent it. She snickered. “Like what? The Seven Pointed Star? Stitching?”

“Yes. Exactly.” He saw the look of disbelief on her face, and smiled knowingly. “Your brother was wounded by pirates on the sea, you know this?” She nodded hesitantly. Jon had mentioned it in a letter but said he was fine. 

“His face was cut,” he continued, tracing a line diagonally across his face. “His nose, maybe life, was only saved because he wore a steel helm. His iron was cold then, not molten.” Syrio sounded very disapproving. “He recovered with only a scar to show how slow he was because someone knew proper stitches. So if your brother is cut, will you let him die because you cannot stitch?”

Arya blinked. She’d never considered that. “So I should go to the septa’s lessons so I can stitch my brother’s wounds?”

He shrugged again. “Your brothers. Others. It does not matter. Learn. Do not learn. You decide. But if you do not learn your stitches and the Seven Pointed Star, then you do not learn the water dance.”

She sighed in defeat. It was so unfair. But at least Syrio didn’t seem to be boring. “I’ll learn my stitches.” He gave her a satisfied pat on the head. She knew he was only pretending not to hear when she also muttered, “But not the Seven Pointed Star. Stupid septa.”

SJ SJ SJ

AN: I don’t want Arya at King’s Landing (for reasons) but I also wanted to have Syrio train her. This is my solution.

*** Much of these two paragraphs were lifted directly from GRRM’s dialogue when Syrio is speaking to Arya. I tried to incorporate it to make Syrio’s voice more genuine, but I think it a bit awkward. So I cut a portion of it. Hopefully it flows better.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: Like chapter 7, this chapter takes place almost two years after chapter 1. Chapter 8 coincides with chapter 7. My original chapter 8 is now chapters 8 and 9, with Joy’s introduction being chapter 10. It was just getting too long. 

Tristram and Lyra are both 14 years old. Ser Illifer and Ser Creighton are the same knights encountered by Brienne in canon, and Tom is the singer with the Brotherhood in canon (and which doesn’t exist in this AU).

I’m practicing flashbacks in this chapter so I apologize if there is any confusion to the reader.

Trigger Warning: A small amount of bad language, which I think is appropriate given the context.

SJ SJ SJ

When Jon opened his eyes the sun was still far below the horizon. The early morning air was cool, though many of the travelers complained of the cold. Jon smiled in amusement. Southern knights and squires had no concept of true cold.

Ser Jaime, Ser Illifer and Ser Creighton, with the minstrel, Tom O’Sevens, occupied the inn and would not be up until sunrise. Jon and his fellow squires, Lyra Mormont and Tristram Rivers, had to content themselves with burrowing into a mound of hay in the stables. 

Ser Jaime was of the opinion that squires needed to learn how to live a bit rough, so he relegated all three to the stables of the inn outside Gulltown. Jon was amused. A year wandering the Gift and the northwestern mountains of the North more than taught that lesson. Traveling the Riverlands, and now the Vale, and sleeping in hay in the shelter of a stable was positively luxurious by comparison.

Jon knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep any longer. Not only had rising early become an ingrained habit, but today was an important day. He was to compete in the Gulltown squire’s tournament. Ser Jaime was convinced he’d win as he thought the competition would be adequate, at best. Despite Ser Jaime’s confidence, Jon’s stomach was churning in nervous anticipation.

He quietly collected his sword and rolled out of the hay so as not to disturb his fellow squires, or more specifically, Lyra Mormont. While Tristram Rivers, the young bastard son of Jeffory Mallister and cousin of Lord Jason Mallister, was an easygoing young man, Lyra had the temper shared by all Mormont women. 

As Ser Jaime found to his great regret. When they’d reached Bear Island Ser Jaime had used Jon’s relation to Lord Stark to abuse the hospitality of Maege Mormont, the Lady of Bear Island. He had commandeered House Mormont’s tiltyard as he thought Jon’s education with the lance had been less than adequate. To her credit, Lady Mormont bore his intrusion with an easy grace. 

However, as the days began to turn into weeks, the Mormont daughters wanted their tiltyard back. They were polite about it, couching it in terms of requesting his instruction with the lance. Jaime being Jaime, he did not take their request well.

He’d mocked their skill at arms, judging them to be barely adequate. Worse, he expressed the forceful opinion that women had no place on the battlefield and that they’d be better suited to focusing on bearing children and managing household accounts. Worse yet, he opined that even if they had some marginal value on the battlefield, they certainly had no business being knights and so should forego the use of the tiltyard to those who would actually benefit. Namely, Jon and himself. 

Lyra, her fourteen year old daughter, dreamt of being a knight. The famous Ser Jaime’s words reduced her to tears. This was apparently the last straw even for the courteous Maege Mormont. 

To the great surprise of Jaime Lannister, Lady Mormont was a powerful and skilled warrior. Despite that, Jon thought in most circumstances Jaime would have prevailed. But this was not most circumstances. 

He had enraged the mother bear that was Lady Mormont. She pummeled him senseless, and, with the assistance of her many daughters, stripped him naked and tossed him off the dock and into the Bay of Ice. 

She was firm in her demand for recompense for the insult he’d given them. She’d only allowed him to clamber back onto the pier and into the warmth of their Hall if he promised to take Lyra as a squire and train her as a knight.

Jaime was a brave and strong knight. He was an arrogant and stubborn man. But a few moments in the deep icy waters, as the warmth fled his body and his muscles began to seize, convinced him, at least in this one instance, that discretion was the better part of valor. He agreed.

When Jaime later was deep in his cups muttering about violation of guest right, Jon told Jaime it could have been worse. The Mormont women could have pummeled him senseless, stripped him naked and chained him to a tree in their woods, after changing his name to “Bear”. Seeing his look of confusion, Jon explained the rumors of how the Mormont women fathered their children, causing Jaime to grow steadily more pale. 

After that, Jaime Lannister was exceptionally courteous to Lady Mormont. He extended the time they’d intended to spend as a guest at Bear Island from one month to three. He was very helpful and gracious to all the Mormont daughters when it came to giving them personal instruction with lance, axe and sword. 

When they boarded the small fishing vessel they had charted to transport them to Seagard, Jon was surprised to see that Jaime genuinely appeared to regret leaving. 

No, Jon decided, it would not be a good idea to provoke Lyra Mormont by waking her early. She had a rich vocabulary and wasn’t afraid to use it when expressing her displeasure. 

Jon shook his head free of sleep, and his reminiscing, and quietly moved away from his still slumbering companions. The pole ladder was well built and allowed him to work his way down from the loft and out the stable’s backdoor. 

When he exited, he saw that Gulltown’s moon was low in the night sky but that it provided enough light for his purposes. He stroked the beginnings of his beard as he enjoyed the silence and the morning air, putting off the thought, and dread, of beginning his new morning routine. 

For some reason, Ser Jaime had insisted that he cut his hair short and start growing a beard when they first landed at Seagard. He claimed it was the style in the south. He ignored Jon when he observed that Jaime went clean shaven and long haired. 

Jon didn’t really mind, despite the curious order. He found the short hair was more comfortable in the southern heat. He was very proud of the beginnings of his beard, even though Tom had taken to mocking it in rhyming couplets. As Jon usually spent his days too exhausted to get angry, he contented himself with dismissing the rhymes as the jealousy of an old man. 

It was possible that Jaime was trying to help Jon cover his scar, Jon mused. But if so, it was a wasted effort as he traced the ridged white scar with his finger. It traveled diagonally across his face, starting above his left eyebrow, down across his nose and below his right cheekbone, before ending just to the right side of his mouth. It was a ghastly thing, though Ser Creighton was insistent the right kind of woman would appreciate the scars.

They’d been attacked on the voyage to Seagard. The small fishing vessel must have been seen as an easy target by the ironborn, who alternated between being merchants and pirates, as circumstances allowed. Their effort to pay the ‘iron price’ for the small, unescorted boat failed miserably. 

When the ironborn overtook the small fishing craft, they had obviously expected a quick surrender. They certainly did not expect to be boarded by a bloodthirsty Westerland knight in full plate and his chain and leather armored squires. 

Jaime used that surprise to lead a counter-attack over the side and into the ironborn’s ship. The small longship, of a type called a snekka, had a crew of twenty. Normally, even that small of a crew would have been able to surround and overwhelm even the greatest of knights. 

But Jaime had positioned them across the narrow width of the longship. Jon and Jaime alone were enough to create a bottleneck and stop them from being flanked and surrounded. Lyra covered their rear to prevent the ironborn from using their fishing boat as a platform to work their way around to their back. That meant the crew could only come at them straight on. 

It was a slaughter. While the reapers, as the ironborn liked to call themselves, were terrors to unsuspecting villagers and fishermen, they were like wheat to the scythe called Jaime Lannister. Jon primarily found himself relegated to protecting Jaime’s unshielded side, but was himself surprised at his own skill compared to the reapers when they tried to press pass viewing him as the lesser threat. 

Jon rubbed his face as he remembered again the valuable lesson Jaime had imparted at the small village in the far north. While he was throwing ironborn bodies over the side, one was not as dead as he appeared. The shrieking ironborn had desperately swung his axe across Jon’s face as he was falling back into the water. 

It was fortunate his open faced helm had a bronze nasal guard. That guard took the brunt of the unexpected strike, absorbing much of the force even though it was cloven through by the iron axe. 

Thankfully, the three man crew that handled the fishing nets were all handy with a needle. While they couldn’t immediately set his broken nose as it was half severed, they could stitch it back together after cleaning out the wound with cold sea water. 

The ironborn vessel was well stocked with barrels of pickled vegetables and other trade goods. Jaime thought it must have stopped at a port and engaged in some honest trading before deciding to turn pirate. As a reward for saving Jon’s nose, Jaime had given the crew the entirety of the ship's contents. Unfortunately, they didn’t have enough bodies to man the ship as a prize and they didn’t have enough space to take all the cargo, but the fisherfolk were still very pleased as they pulled away from the vessel after Lyra set it aflame.

Jon didn’t like to think of the pain he experienced due to both the wound and it’s treatment. He’d recovered quickly, thank the gods both old and new.

The remembrance of that pain reminded him that he needed to stop procrastinating and start training. Ser Jaime was very fond of reminding him that the more he sweated in the training yard, the less he’d bleed on the battlefield. The sense of those words had been driven home hard based on his experience at sea.

Groaning in anticipation, he dropped face first to the ground, his body straight and flat, and then pushed up. He held the position for as long as he could. Eventually his arms, then his torso, and finally his legs began to shake under the strain. When the trembling became too much, he collapsed with a gasp, his arms and body burning. 

He half thought he should curse Syrio for introducing him to this series of simple exercises. He refrained. The improvement in his balance and speed had become very noticeable during the weeks he had traveled with them. Whatever Jaime might think of the pompous and self-important Bravoso, his training techniques worked. So Jon woke early and spent a small amount of time every morning training the Bravosi way, despite the protestations of his aching body.

The plank, as Syrio called it, was painful. What came next was worse. Suppressing another groan, he retrieved his length of rope and began to skip in place. He didn’t count, time wasn’t important, effort was. Instead, he let his thoughts wander. He wondered if Syrio had reached Winterfell yet. He had no doubt that Arya would benefit from his training. He more than half suspected his wild sister would take to it like a duck to water.

Losing himself in his memories of Arya and Winterfell helped pass the time and took his mind off the burning in his calves, the tightness of his stomach, the rapid beating of his heart, and his ever increasing shortness of breath. Eventually, however, he could no longer ignore his body’s protests. He collapsed to the ground, his sweat soaked body drawing in deep lungfuls of air. 

He laid there a moment, collecting his wits, before rolling over and standing. He was almost done. The last of Syrio’s morning exercises was positively pleasant compared to the others.

Picking up his sword, he assumed the guard position. Slowly, without hurrying, he worked his way through the forms. Syrio had claimed this ‘dance’ was the first one taught to children in Bravos. He also claimed it was the most important, the dance upon which all others were built. 

Jon had no opinion on the subject. He just knew it helped soothe his aching muscles. The foot, body and blade movements had an almost meditative effect, as one form flowed into the next, stretching out his weary limbs. He could see why it was called a dance. And as often as Syrio had made Jaime scowl, there was obviously something to the wiry man’s teaching. 

His inattention and almost death at the hands of the ironborn had caused Jaime to lose his temper for the first time Jon could remember. He shouted, he yelled, he stomped around the small ship. He reminded him of his instructions on how to deal with the supposed dead. He questioned his intelligence. Finally, he scowled in silence.

Jon had preferred Ser Jaime’s yelling to his accusatory silence. Even an apology and promise to not make that mistake again had not lightened the Lannister heir’s mood.

Jaime’s mood didn’t improve until they disembarked and were met at the docks by Ser Illifer and Ser Creighton. The two hedge knights had been hired by Tyrion to deliver a heavy leather satchel to Jaime, which Jon later found was filled with gold dragons, and several letters. 

Apparently, Lord Tywin had cut Jaime off from his funds until he returned to the Rock. Tyrion promised to keep the gold flowing by way of partial amends, no matter where Jaime decided to travel. 

Jon was less than sure why Tyrion was making amends to Jaime. The eldest Lannister alternated between ranting and laughing when he read his brother’s letter.

The delivery of the satchel was also a test of a sort for the two battered looking knights. They were older and obviously poor, but had a reputation for honesty. Their delivery of the gold proved their integrity and Jaime promptly took them into his service. 

They appeared ecstatic after giving their oaths. From hedge knights to household knights of the heir of Casterly Rock was a tremendous improvement in their fortunes.

After swearing in the two old and battered knights, Jaime had arranged rooms for his greatly expanded entourage at a nearby inn. Then he had called Jon into his room and asked him to sit down.

He’d looked at Jon silently for a moment as if deciding what to say. He sighed. “Jon, there is no easy way of saying this, so I’ll just say it. You’ve been betrothed. To my cousin. Trust me when I say she’s a good girl. I’m very fond of her. If you accept the marriage, you’ll be Lord of Castamere and you’ll become a Lannister.” He’d smiled awkwardly, even hopefully. “We’d be kinsmen.”

Jon remembered the shock he’d felt hearing those words. Shock gave way to incredulous laughter. “Is this a joke?” As a bastard, he’d always wanted a name and a holdfast, maybe a wife and family, but the name he wanted was Stark.

Jaime had looked at him with some sympathy. “No joke. None of this was my idea, it’s one of Tyrion’s schemes. But thinking about it, I think it’s something you shouldn’t reject out of hand. If nothing else, you’ll be rich.” 

And then Jaime did something which destroyed his world. He handed him two letters. The first bore his father’s seal.

Jon,

There is no future for you in the North. I cannot make you a Stark. I have made other arrangements for you. Tyrion Lannister has the details.

Reading this, I suspect that you are hurting. Please know that I do love you. You are my blood. But this is for the best.

Eddard Stark  
Lord of the North

The second letter was from Joy Hill, his alleged betrothed. It had smelled faintly of maple and apples. Her handwriting, despite the elaborate flourishes, was easily read. 

Jon Snow,

My name is Joy Hill. Like you I am a highborn bastard. I suspect that we have had similar experiences, some good, some not, because of that status.

I know our pending nuptials may come as a shock to you. They were to me also. My first instinct was to reject the proposal. That instinct was childish. There are too many benefits to ignore. For one, neither one of us will be illegitimate once we are married. For another, we will gain a name and a considerable estate. 

Having a marriage arranged for us to a person we’ve never met is something our trueborn kinsmen must endure, so why not us? And as Tyrion describes you, I could, and likely will, do considerably worse if I, or you, were to reject the proposal.

I do not wish to sound mercenary. But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. I hope you will agree and accept me as your wife. Please write if you are willing.

Joy Hill  
Natural daughter of Gerion Lannister

He’d moped for days after reading the letters. Not even the infectious humor of Ser Creighton could improve his mood. It was Ser Illifer, called the Poor, who snapped him out of it.

He’d taken Jon on a walk to Seagard’s poorer quarters. Half starved beggars, whores, drunks, interspersed with unskilled laborers who kept their heads down and hands on their belt pouches, traveled the filthy street. 

Ser Illifer had swept his hand in the direction of the crowd and asked Jon a pointed question. “Do you know what you have in common with many of these unfortunate souls?”

Jon’s confused look must have been all the answer he needed. Ser Illifer had snorted contemptuously and said, “Like you they are bastards. Born out of wedlock. Sinners by their very nature and not to be trusted. Despised and denied the opportunities of good honest working folk. Do you know how you are different?”

This time Jon was faster on the uptake. “I’m not starving.”

“Exactly,” Ser Illifer had responded, sneering at Jon. “Even more, you have a family that cares, is trying to make you rich. But you are in a snit because you’re not getting everything you wanted in life. Any of these people, bastard or not, would give their left arm to have your life. Get your head out of your ass.” And with that he slapped Jon hard across the back of his head.

While Jon resented the blow, it did drive the point home. He’d apologized to Ser Jaime for his behavior and then promptly wrote to Joy, accepting her hand in marriage.

Jaime had smiled in relief when he’d accepted. “This calls for a gift. As a newly minted Lannister and a man of status, you are in desperate need of proper arms and armor.”

And that’s how Jon found himself having a custom suit of plate and mail made for him. It was crafted in castle steel, functional and free of any adornment. The last part made Jaime frown but he’d not insisted. Jaime’s own plate was much more ostentatious, being tinted in gold and boasting a raised Lannister lion on his breastplate. 

Lyra, Ser Illifer and Ser Creighton also received equipment upgrades at Ser Jaime’s expense. In addition to armor, each received a castle forged steel sword and axe, as well as a courser for battle, a rouncey for riding when not in battle, and a garron for carrying supplies. 

The knights looked as if the Seven had answered their prayers. Lyra was of the vocal opinion that Ser Jaime had been too free with his coin. She was probably right as Jaime’s leather satchel was considerably depleted by the time he was done spending.

His spending had attracted the attention of Seagard’s lord, Jason Mallister. When he discovered that he had the famous Jaime Lannister, the savior of King’s Landing, in his town, an immediate invitation to dine was delivered. Jaime accepted and by the following morning he had a third squire, Tristram Rivers. 

For a knight who despised taking squires, within the course of a year he’d somehow acquired three. He hadn’t let it bother him too much, however. As he confided in Jon, three knights meant three squires, so it worked out.

Though Jon did regret the day they ran into Tom O’Sevenstreams, an old minstrel outside Oldstones, just south of Seagard. First, he’d immediately started making unwelcome advances to Lyra. That ended well, at least from Jon’s standpoint, when she pressed a recently sharpened dagger between his legs and began to discuss the merits of gelding pigs. 

What was worse was Jaime’s insistence he learn to sing, and play the harp and lute. Jon had protested strenuously. Jaime, as was his custom, ignored his protests and expounded at length on his inferior northern education. As a future lord, he insisted that his squire needed to know something about music. Tom was hired and Jon’s nightly lessons, or as he quietly referred to it, his nightly torture, began.

To everyone’s surprise, Tom was a good teacher. To everyone’s greater surprise, except Jaime’s, Jon demonstrated a rare talent for music. More and more their party of seven was insisting that he play and sing each evening around the campfire, to his great embarrassment. Even as Tom mocked his fledgling beard, he found it in him to praise his talent. Jon hated it, though he soon learned to hide his discomfort at the unwanted attention. For those small interludes, his duty was to play and sing.

The sun breaking over the horizon reminded Jon of his other duties. Sighing, he snapped himself out of his reverie. Putting away his sword he moved toward the inn to attend to his knight. It would be a long day.

SJ SJ SJ

AN: I’ve split chapter 8 in half. Chapter 9 is now a continuation of Jon’s POV and covers the squire’s tournament. Chapter 10 is now Joy’s POV and occurs about a year after chapters 7, 8 and 9.

AN: I have no idea how GRRM’s water dancers train, other than for quickness and balance, so I stole some ideas from articles on Roman gladiators and Asian martial artists. That’s where the idea of Syrio showing Jon planking, skipping rope and the form movements (kata in Asian martial arts) came from.

AN: A snekka is a small Viking longship that was about 56’ long and a little over 8’ wide. It could have a war crew of around 40, but since they were operating primarily as merchants, and only dabbling in piracy, it had a smaller crew to make space for cargo.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: Like chapter 7, this chapter takes place almost two years after chapter 1. Chapters 7, 8 and 9 all take place more or less at the same time. 

Last chapter I stated Tristram is 14 years old. As his father died in canon in 282, that won’t work (Jeffory Mallister was part of Brandon’s group that was killed by King Aerys). He’s now almost 17, just a bit older than Jon. He was born posthumously. Also to be clear, he’s an OC. There is no reference to Jeffory having a bastard son, but I wanted to give Jon a tie to the Riverlands who had northern sympathies.

Like canon, Sansa is 2-3 years younger than Jon. She is currently 14.

SJ SJ SJ

Jon was watching the ladies and squires surrounding Mychel Redfort. The young Valeman had won the joust the previous day. Now, he was basking in his glory. Not that Jon cared, he tried to convince himself.

Jon had been forbidden from participating in the joust. Ser Jaime thought he still needed a lot of improvement before he’d risk him in the lists. To hear Jaime tell it, he was barely top half, maybe top third, and it would embarrass House Lannister if he was eliminated too early.

He had similar reasons for forbidding Jon from participating in the axe throwing, archery, wrestling and horse racing contests. He’d been torn about allowing him to participate in the singing event, but ultimately decided against it, to Jon’s great relief. 

Jon was watching the squires, trying to discern any weakness. The melee was to start in only a few hours and Jon wanted every advantage he could get.

His focus was disrupted when he heard a half forgotten, but still familiar voice call out, “Jon! Jon Snow! I mean, Jon Lannister!”

He turned and saw Sansa excitedly running toward him from the sept, taking quick dainty steps, waving all the while. The lords of Gulltown had set up the stands before the sept, taking advantage of its central location and open space. The septons approved, as it gave them a chance to proselytize to the masses that came to watch the tourney.

Sansa was the same as he remembered. Auburn haired, striking blue eyes, and delicate features. She really was a beautiful woman. Someday she’d eclipse even her mother, Jon thought, and Catelyn Tully, for all of her faults, was a beauty. 

The only change he noticed immediately was that she was dressed in the blue and white of House Arryn, as were the two hard-eyed armsmen that trailed quickly behind her. It wasn’t until she stood before him he noticed that she’d gotten shorter.

With a start he realized that she hadn’t gotten smaller, but rather he’d grown in the two years they’d been apart. Sansa had not. Where she once stood level with his nose, she now barely reached his shoulder.

She stepped forward and fiercely embraced him, which he gladly returned. “I’ve missed you, little sister,” he said softly. 

“And I you, brother,” she responded, laying her head on his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the armsmen relax once they heard them confirm their family relationship.

Finally, far too soon in Jon’s opinion, she pulled away. Her face was flushed as she swatted him on his arm. “Why didn’t you write and tell me you’d be at the tournament? I’ve been here for weeks. We could have spent that time together!” Her hands were on her hips as she glared at him indignantly.

“I sent a raven a moon ago to the Eyrie,” he replied weakly. He wasn’t used to a firm, scolding Sansa. Where was his gentle, sweet sister?

Her face softened. “Lady Rowena, Ronnel and I have been visiting the Arryns of Gulltown over the last several weeks. I must have just missed it.” She pulled him into another quick embrace. Pulling away, she said “You’re forgiven, brother.”

He arched his eyebrow at his sister. “Forgiven for what?” 

“For not sending a raven sooner,” she replied sweetly, with just a hint of mischief in her eyes. Then they darkened. “And for wrecking your beautiful face,” she whispered in distress, using one hand to trace the scar that marred his looks, and the other to cup his mangled left ear.

Ser Jaime had been brutal in his sparring with Jon, both with shield and without, armed and unarmed. He’d quickly detected that Jon was less quick on his left, relying too much on his shield for defense. A remnant of too many hours under Ser Rodrick, he’d critiqued. He’d ruthlessly exploited that weakness, and pummeled Jon mercilessly. 

Pain was an effective motivator. Jon learned quickly that movement of body and limb, both to the left and the right, was critical to any solid defense. But he did not learn quickly enough to save his ear from becoming a twisted mass. 

He laughed. “It’s a hazard of the trade, sweet sister. Ser Jaime is a harsh taskmaster.” Besides, he knew his injuries were relatively mild. Many squires and knights had far worse.

“I didn’t see you in the joust,” Sansa remarked. “Are you competing in the tournament?”

“In the melee,” he responded. “Ser Jaime wanted me to focus on that and not be distracted by the other events. I was just looking over the competition,” he said nodding towards Mychel Redfort’s group.

She sniffed. “Mychel won the joust and crowned Ysilla Royce his queen of love and beauty. He broke Mya Stone’s heart.” She almost growled as she spoke.

He laughed at her obvious discontent with Mychel Redfort. “If I had competed and won, dear sister, I would have crowned you the queen of love and beauty,” he proclaimed gallantly, sweeping into a bow.

She giggled. “That would have started a few rumors. A brother crowning his sister? The gossips would have us as secret Targaryens within the day.” A cunning look came into her eye. Yes, Jon thought, Sansa had changed. The sister he remembered didn’t have a cunning bone in her body. “He’s competing in the melee. So are you. I think you should punish him for playing with my friend’s heart.”

Jon looked at Sansa in shock. “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?” he demanded, only half mockingly. 

She smiled demurely. “Why nothing, Ser Jon,” she whispered in a ridiculously overdone seductive voice. “I’m just a poor innocent maiden, alone and lost in the world.” She batted her eyelashes at him until she finally couldn’t hold it in and started laughing. Wiping tears from her eyes, she said, “Lady Rowena has been educating me, brother, to make sure I know my role as Lady of the Vale. Life is not a song. Most people are motivated only by their self-interest and gold rules the land.”

Jon frowned. He didn’t necessarily disagree with her, but he knew many fine and noble people. Such as Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion. And Ser Illifer and Ser Creighton, he thought, remembering their honesty in delivering the gold. 

“Really?” he asked skeptically. 

“Really, dear brother,” she replied sadly. She gestured towards the stands and lists. “What do you see before you, Jon?”

“Spectators, mostly smallfolk. Merchants. The occasional septa and septon. Knights and their squires competing for glory, and their ladies cheering them on,” he responded simply.

Sansa took his hand and guided him to a bench. Her bright blue eyes gazed into his grey as she smiled. “All true,” she admitted. “But incomplete. What stands behind all of that is gold.”

“You, dear brother, paid five golden dragons to compete,” she continued, holding his hand and tracing out the scars and calluses on it. Jon noticed that her hand was small, pale, and soft and was completely engulfed by his own. Her eyes and finger lingered on a particularly nasty scar on the back of his hand, a cut from a tourney sword which he’d been too slow to avoid. “There are eighty participants in the melee. Four hundred gold dragons collected. One hundred paid to the winner, fifty to second place and twenty-five to third, for an expenditure of one hundred, seventy-five dragons. Leaving two hundred, twenty-five for the coffers of Lord Grafton.”

Jon wrapped his mind around those numbers. “It was five dragons for each event,” he said dumbly.

She smiled sadly at him. “Where you see chivalry, as I once did, actually stands commerce. And that’s just the beginning. Think of the sheer number of visitors to Gulltown. All of them paying tolls, renting rooms, buying meals, drinking wine, purchasing gifts, armor and weapons, making donations to the Seven to improve their odds for victory. All those transactions are taxed. This tournament is offered every year. Many flock to it as it is one of the few that caters exclusively to squires. They never blink at the fee, which is amusing as any knight would take it as an insult if a fee were demanded for one of their tournaments.”

Jon sat silently, turning Sansa’s information over in his mind. He really didn’t know what to say. He finally decided on, “I now understand why father despises tournaments.”

Sansa’s laugh was a small, tinkling thing, pure and sweet. “Don’t fret, Jon. There is still honor to be won. You should just be aware of what stands behind it. Not many are.” She stretched to reach him, half standing, and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “Now if you will be my champion and thrash Mychel Redfort, I’ll let you wear my favor.”

He smiled at his sister, so different yet so much the same as the one he’d last seen at Winterfell. “It would be my pleasure, my lady, to champion your cause on the field of battle,” he replied with mock gravity.

She pulled a scarf from around her neck. It was white and grey. Stark colors he was pleased to see. Sansa had not forgotten who she was, after all, he thought with a smile. She carefully wrapped and then tied it high around his armored sword arm, leaving the extra length exposed to view. She obviously had no concerns with announcing her relationship to her bastard brother.

“Now, where is Ghost?” she demanded when she was done. “Lady misses him.”

He shrugged. “He vanished days ago, headed deep into a wooded valley. He’ll return when he’s done exploring.”

Sansa looked relieved. “Lady slipped her leash a few days ago also. I hope she went to visit her brother.” She leaned against Jon, resting her head against his arm.

“I have no doubt,” he replied cryptically as he placed his arm around her shoulders. She sighed as she leaned further into him. 

His dreams had been dominated by his wolf running free and wild, Lady by his side, as they pulled down deer and terrorized lesser wolves. He was certain there was more to these dreams then just his imagination, but he shied away from thinking too deeply about it. He wondered if Sansa had similar dreams. 

His face turned red as he recalled some of what Ghost and Lady had been up to in his dreams. He pushed the thought from his mind.

They sat that way for a long while, not needing to speak, as the sun slowly approached its zenith. Finally, she reluctantly pulled away. “They’ll call the melee soon. You need to go,” she said sadly. Then she brightened. “But you and Ser Jaime should visit the Arryn manse. You can get out of whatever nasty inn you're staying at and stay with me and Lady Rowena. You’ll love Ronnel. He’s a jewel.”

His eyes narrowed hearing the slight change in her voice when she spoke Ronnel’s name. “Ronnel?” he questioned, his hackles rising. 

“The younger brother of my betrothed,” she replied obliviously, seemingly unaware of the change in his tone. “Now, will you stay with us? We’d have more time to visit.”

“I would love to, but there are seven in our party,” he responded helplessly. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this Ronnel, though he was sure he didn’t like him, but it saddened him that he might not be able to spend more time with Sansa. He’d missed her over the last couple of years, he realized with a start.

She swatted his arm again. “It’s a manse, silly,” she said with a laugh. “We have plenty of room.” She looked at his scarred face again. Her concern was obvious. “And if it makes a difference to Ser Jaime, it has a training yard you can use.”

He smiled in relief. “I’ll ask. I’m certain that he’ll agree.”

“Good. Now you’d better go. And remember, thrash Mychel. His shield shows a red castle on a white field.”

He saw her watching him as he moved toward the field. Finally, he turned away and pushed aside the ache in his heart. He needed to focus if he was to thrash Mychel and another four score competitors.

The tourney field was a hive of activity, the stands packed with noisy townsfolk. Marshals, armored knights wearing blue and white, ran about, placing competitors at their designated starting points. He saw many squires with their heads together whispering. He assumed they were making temporary alliances to improve their odds. 

He put them out of his mind as he removed his shield from his back and strapped it on his arm. Like his surcoat, it showed a golden lion on a red field. 

He silently laughed to himself when he realized that while he and Sansa were both of the North, they each were wearing southern colors not their own.

Joy and he had taken to exchanging occasional letters in an effort to get to know one another. He had no idea when Ser Jaime intended to travel back to the Rock, but he thought he had a duty to not ignore his wife. She was family now every bit as much as his Stark siblings, even if he had never laid eyes on her.

She had told him, in his absence, that she’d selected their coat of arms as Lord and Lady of Castamere. She’d kept the Lannister’s golden lion on a field of red, but added a white wolf’s head and white hill, both in canton, one sinister and one dexter. 

She’d selected the sigil to affirm their association with the mainline Lannisters, while at the same time acknowledging their bastard roots. She’d taken very seriously, and quite literally, Tyrion’s advice to wear their bastardy like armor. Jon very much approved.

Jaime had refused to allow him to paint his shield or modify his surcoat to reflect his new sigil. According to Jaime, he’d only have the right to display his own coat of arms when he was knighted, not a moment sooner. Until that time, he had to be content to wear Ser Jaime’s sigil, signifying that he was in service to House Lannister.

The competitors eventually found themselves standing in a circle, evenly spaced out. A herald stood between the Lord and Lady of Gulltown and announced the rules. They were very straight forward. All swords were to have dulled edges and rounded points. No competitor was to strike while another’s back was turned. A competitor was eliminated when he yielded or a marshal determined he was no longer able to proceed. Marshals would be wandering within the melee. They would enforce the rules and were not to be attacked.

He saw Sansa in the stands, close to the Lord of Gulltown. She sat to one side of a brown haired highborn lady whom he presumed was Lady Rowena, Jon Arryn’s widow, as she wore House Arryn colors. On the other side of her sat a younger man who looked very similar to Lady Rowena. Ronnel, he thought. They were surrounded by blue and white garbed knights.

He saw another white and blue knight escorting Jaime and his entourage toward Lady Rowena. He was surprised they’d found each other, but maybe Sansa had arranged it while the field was being prepared.

Sansa waved. He lifted his sword in a salute. A trumpet sounded signifying the start of the melee. He snapped his visor closed.

Jon immediately stepped back, putting the squires to his left and right in front of him. Most either turned to face their opponent to their left or right, or rushed across the field to meet a preferred enemy.

To Jon’s relief, the squire to his left turned to his own left and immediately attacked. The two exchanged blows, each blocking with their shields, their feet set. Jon was not impressed.

The squire to his right, however, turned and faced Jon. He lifted his sword in a salute, which Jon returned. 

His opponent’s shield had three women’s heads placed in a triangle Jon noticed as they rushed together. A Sisterman, he remembered, recalling Jaime’s many lessons around a campfire on the road. House Sunderland.

The Sisterman drew up suddenly, just within range of Jon and struck. Jon did not. He continued forward while at the same time stepping to his left to avoid the sudden cut, and thrust toward his opponent’s helmeted head without slowing. The Sisterman twisted his body and moved his shield to block Jon’s strike. As soon as he did, his shield obscured his vision, so Jon kicked him behind his knee and smashed his shield into the Sisterman’s, using his momentum and his opponent’s awkward positioning to send him crashing to the ground.

“Yield,” Jon growled, channeling his inner wolf as he stepped on his opponent's swordhand and pointed his sword at his throat. The Sisterman nodded, releasing his sword and stumbled off the field escorted by a marshal.

Jon stepped back again, eyes sweeping the field. He growled in frustration when he saw three men whose shields were painted pink with a winged chalice advance on him shoulder to shoulder. He couldn’t remember the House that used that sigil. 

The rules only prevented attacking an opponent from behind. They did not prevent contestants from attacking as a unit and flanking a lone contestant, though some frowned on it.

He knew he couldn’t allow himself to be flanked so he charged, targeting the outside man to his left. A confused melee followed. The two not engaged swung to his right, so he kept moving left in a circular motion, always keeping his one opponent between himself and the other two. It was dizzying. But more for them than him.

The first pink shield stepped forward and tried to press Jon, shield to shield, in an effort to lock him in place. Jon allowed it. As soon as their shields slammed together, though, he dropped into a quick crouch and then pushed forward and up, bowing and lifting the man from his feet. He kept pushing forward, slamming his airborne opponent into the next pink shield, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

The third pink shield managed to land a strike on Jon’s sword arm as he was doing this, but he was able to twist his arm as it landed, taking the blow on his steel plate. He swung his body square to face him, knowing he did not have a lot of time until the other two regained their footing.

His opponent was cautious so Jon threw caution to the wind. He exchanged a flurry of blows, shifting his feet left and right, always pressing, always in motion, while his opponent stumbled backward. Finally, Jon broke his guard, landing one, two, three heavy blows to his helmeted head. The third must have hit hard, as he sunk to the ground, clutching his severely dented helm. A marshal tapped his defeated opponent with his baton, signally he was eliminated.

Just in time too. The other two pink shields were back on their feet and rushed him, enraged with the humiliating elimination of their kinsman. 

What worked once may work again, Jon thought as he breathed deeply. He countercharged the two, this time keeping to the right, always moving to keep the first between himself and the second. Despite that constant movement, he rained down blows on the man in front of him. The second pink shield tried to keep up, but Jon’s sheer speed and the constant shifting of his point of attack soon had him huddling behind his raised shield. Jon wasted no time and shifted his focus, repeatedly striking at his poleyn, the knee guard, while continuing to batter him with his shield. 

His leg crumbled. The second pink shield moved both his sword and shield to block as one knee hit the ground, while the third desperately tried to get around him. Jon wasn’t having any of it. As the third shifted left, Jon shifted right. If he moved right, he moved left. All the while, he rained blows down on his half kneeling opponent. Eventually the second man dropped to both knees and shouted out, “I yield!”, while turtling up behind his shield.

Jon took two steps quickly back, pointing his sword at the third pink shield. He saw him gather his pride, his eyes hardening. At least he’s no coward, Jon thought approvingly.

It was over quickly. Jon took the initial strike on his shield, and then used his shield as a second weapon, pushing the third man’s sword upward, battering at him constantly with both the edge and flat. When his shield attacked high, Jon’s sword struck low. It only took a few breathes for the last pink shield to fall backward on his back, Jon’s sword at his throat.

Jon didn’t have to demand that he yield. He angrily pushed Jon’s sword away, and glaring at him, spat, “I yield,” to the marshal who was observing the exchange. He stomped off the field, obviously angry with both himself and Jon.

Again Jon moved backward, trying to get a view of the entire field. He heard Sansa and Lyra shouting his name, cheering him on, Sansa with more volume than he thought her capable and Lyra consistent with his expectations. Tristram’s encouragement was lost in the noise of the two girls, but Jon ignored them all. It would not do to become distracted.

There were less than twenty competitors left. All of them appeared to be engaged. Jon took the opportunity to catch his breath, though to his surprise he was less winded than he’d anticipated. 

Finally, an armored man cast aside his shield and took a knee, yielding to his opponent. The victor carried a shield painted with a red castle. Mychel Redfort, he growled under his breath. Jon’s smile was a twisted cruel thing. Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt Ghost crouch in anticipation.

Jon advanced, rolling his shoulders to loosen them as he did so. “Redfort!” He shouted to get his attention.

Mychel turned to face him, sword and shield up. Jon noticed that his positioning was much better than most.

It was Redfort’s misfortune to be facing Ser Jaime’s squire. If Jon hadn’t been here, he thought Mychel might have triumphed, as he did in the joust. But it was not to be.

Up until this point, Jon had fought aggressively, taking the attack to his opponent and overwhelming them with his mobility, speed and power. Now, he kept his defensive tight, stayed constantly in motion, constantly probing, never committing. Redfort grew more and more aggravated with the bee stings that Jon sent his way. Frustrated, he bull rushed Jon in an effort to take him off his feet. 

Against a slower man, one who was not as light on his feet, it would have worked. Redfort was fast. Jon was faster. Jon thanked Syrio’s memory as he stepped right, trailing his leg to trip Redfort while simultaneously swinging his sword around connecting with the back of his helmet. 

Mychel was smashed to the ground, face first. Jon stepped on his sword blade as he rolled onto his back. “Yield?” He asked. 

Redfort nodded. He lifted his visor, looking shamefaced. “May I ask who has defeated me?”

“Jon Lannister,” he replied gruffly. “But call me Snow. Mya Stone sends her regards.”

Redfort’s face turned as crimson as his name when Jon spoke Mya’s name. “It was not my intention to dishonor her,” he cried weakly, looking ashamed and embarrassed. “Father insists I am to marry Ysilla.”

Jon shrugged, not caring. “Take it up with her,” he said dismissively as Redfort was escorted off the field.

When he turned back to look over his remaining opponents, there were only four left. He waited for them to resolve their individual battles and then moved to engage the first that prevailed.

It was anticlimactic. The man he faced carried a black and gold shield adorned with starfish. House Ruthermont, Jon remembered. His skills were not exceptional, though he made up for the lack with a bit of strength. Jon was surprised he’d made it this far, until he noticed another bearing the same sigil. Part of a team, he thought contemptuously.

He made short work of him. Strike high, strike low, punch once, punch twice with the edge of the shield while stepping left and forward had him stumbling backward. Jon kept pressing and eventually he tripped over his own feet, hitting the ground.

As soon as he did, he raised his hand and shouted “I yield,” without any hesitation. As he was escorted off the field by a marshal, Jon heard him remark, “Final four isn’t bad at all. Father will be pleased.”

That left the final two contenders, Jon and a squire carrying a shield with six silver bells on a purple field. The squire lifted his visor, revealing a strong square face. “I’m Robel Bellmore. May I have your name?”

“Jon Lannister,” Jon replied, not bothering to open his visor. “Call me Snow,” he said again. He wasn’t ashamed to be a Lannister but it felt awkward to claim the name. And if Gregor Clegane could go by the Mountain, he could adopt the nom de guerre “Snow.”

“Well met, Snow,” Bellmore said as he smiled and closed his visor.

Bellmore was a strong, skilled opponent. Jon was also strong and skilled, but was also faster and more mobile. Their duel ended when Jon stepped past his thrust, hooked his shield with the crossguard of his sword, pulled it down, and then punched Bellmore’s helmet hard with the edge of his shield. Bellmore collapsed.

It took a few moments for the marshals to escort him from the field. Jon’s strike had crumpled the front visor of his helm, breaking his nose and rendering him unconscious. 

As they brought him to, Bellmore shook his head in a futile effort to regain clarity. Jon could see that his head was still spinning when he mumbled “Well struck,” as he grasped Jon’s forearm and pounded him on his back by way of congratulations. Finally two marshals grabbed each of his arms and half carried, half walked him to the maester’s tent.

The rest of the day moved at a blur. Lord Grafton awarded him the purse. As coached by Jaime before the melee began, Jon very publicly donated his winnings to the sept. He announced that the only reward he desired was to know the gold was being put toward the betterment of the poor. The crowd ate it up, cheering ‘Lannister’, which Jon found disconcerting. The seed of doubt planted by Sansa made him wonder if the donated purse would go to the poor or Lord Grafton’s coffers.

Jaime was amenable to staying at the Arryn manse. Jon knew from experience and the look in his eye that he’d stay until he’d well worn out their welcome. At least he’d get to spend time with his sister, he thought philosophically, wondering if he should warn her about Jaime’s habits.

When they reached the manse, Sansa rushed out, followed by Lady Rowena and Ronnel. She threw herself into his arms, babbling excitedly about what a great knight he’d be, and how proud she was of him, and how she couldn’t wait to write mother and father. This is the Sansa I remember, he thought fondly as he kissed the top of her head.

Lady Rowena was very pleasant and gracious when inviting them into her home. Ronnel scowled. Jon smirked in response, causing the younger boy to flinch.

Yes, Jon thought. He would enjoy his time in Gulltown, visualizing all the ways he could humiliate the younger Arryn boy. Sansa, he was sure, could do much better.

SJ SJ SJ

AN: Next chapter is Joy Hill’s POV. She and Jon finally meet. Brienne is still several chapters away.

AN: Some may think Sansa is OOC as compared to canon. They’re right. But: 1) she has not lost Lady; and, 2) she’s had proper, safe and intelligent mentoring. I think this is close to what she may have been like if she could have avoided the horrors of Joffrey, the Lannisters, and Littlefinger.

AN: In “canton” is a heraldic phrase used to describe a patch on a shield in the top corner, usually the dexter (right) side but it can also be sinister (left). The patch (canton) is smaller than a shield which has been quartered. 

AN: A lot of professional fighters develop a “cauliflower” ear. Jon has a mild case of it. That’s what Sansa is remarking about when looking at Jon’s left ear. I’m trying to show some naturally occurring damage with Jon. Except his teeth. I’m pretending his dragon heritage makes it hard for him to lose his teeth.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter takes place a year after chapters 7, 8 and 9. Jon is 17 and Joy is 16.

I’ve based this version of Joy on my recollections that in canon Jaime and Tyrion described Joy as a lonely, sweet and intelligent girl, who deserved better. The details I made up.

SJ SJ SJ

Joy sat and enjoyed the quiet within Casterly Rock’s sept. It seemed fitting to sit in the quiet of the sept as she waited for her life to change again. Her husband was finally coming to claim her, his wife.

The light shining through the stained glass created a kaleidoscope of colors, and helped distract her from her thoughts, her fears. Every day the sun struck the windows from another angle, creating a new, ever changing pattern which Joy found mesmerizing. 

The seven walls of the sept, massive and strong within Casterly Rock, were decorated in colored crystals arranged as murals. Each mural showed a scene from the Seven Pointed Star specific to each god. The crystals added to the rainbow of light within the sept. 

Below each of the seven windows stood a statue of one of the Seven. Each was half again as tall as a man, and cast in solid gold to better win the favor of the gods. Though cousin Tyrion had once said their ancestors also likely intended to intimidate those who were less than devout with the wealth of the Lannisters.

Regardless of whether her forefathers' motivations were pure or more worldly, when light fell on the statutes a certain way, they seemed to glow. Joy thought it beautiful.

Joy had found the sept to be a place of safety since she was a young child. The first time her life changed was when her parents went missing. With her parents gone, the other children had taken to following and tormenting her. They would never have dared to do so if she was a trueborn Lannister, but she was a bastard. She was a safe target, one they could strike at with impunity, releasing all their pent up ire at her for the slights, real or imagined, inflicted upon them by her trueborn kinsmen. 

They’d grown bolder over time when no one seemed to care. No one noticed the bruises or that she was dressed in rags or that she no longer sat at the family table during meals, instead of subsisting off of the charity of the kitchen staff. No one noticed when she cried herself to sleep every night, wishing desperately for her parents to come home. 

Aunt Genna later told her the servants thought the highborn were caring for her and the highborn thought the servants were caring for her. In the absence of her father, Gerion Lannister, or her mother, his mistress, Briony, Joy had been simply overlooked.

Joy had taken to exploring Casterly Rock, looking for hiding places so the other children would not hurt her. One day she hid in the sept and they didn’t follow her. That’s when Joy had discovered the sept was a place of safety and solitude. 

No one ever visited unless the septon was praying or leading a service. When the septon was there, everyone was expected to be on their best behavior. When he wasn’t, no one visited, except for an occasional old woman praying for a sick loved one, or when a pilgrim came to take in the splendor of the Rock’s sept. They never bothered her, and either way she was safe in the sept. 

No one had ever hurt her or called her names when she was in the sept. So she visited daily, sitting quietly, watching the colors change and move, hoping no one would notice. 

Her father had left her first. He was a noble knight, her mother had said, on a quest to retrieve the family Valyrian blade Brightroar. He would soon be home to a hero’s welcome. He’d never leave Joy or her mother alone. He’d always protect them.

Joy had believed her mother. Her father was brave, strong and kind. He was always laughing, always singing. He walked everywhere with her, holding her hand, throwing her up in the air, telling her stories. Her father made her smile, made her laugh, and made her feel safe.

Then word came that he was lost at sea. He had set a course for the ruins of Valyria, a place from which no one ever returned.

At first Joy had been confident that her father would return, that he’d be the first to brave the ruins and live to tell the tale. Her father was a hero and heroes always survived impossible odds.

But her mother’s face grew paler and thinner the longer he was gone. She cried more and more each night, holding Joy tightly. Joy noticed that the servants gave her mother less respect, and became less obedient overtime. Lord Lannister, her uncle, moved them out of her father’s rooms in the family wing, and into a smaller, more remote room. Joy began to feel afraid.

She felt better when she heard that Lord Tywin hired men to search for her father. Brave men, skilled men, most of all, her mother said with desperate hope, reliable men. 

Then word came they’d vanished also. The whispers that her father was dead became louder, more frequent. Her mother became even more distraught.

Still, her mother protected her. She played with her during the day, sat with her during meals, bathed her when she became dirty exploring, and sang to her every night before bed. Joy missed her father and cried for her father, and then held her mother when she also cried for father, but Joy felt safe. No one ever called her names or hurt her when her mother was there.

Then her mother went missing. No one could, or would, tell her where her mother had gone. One day she was here, the next not.

Joy was a small and easily overlooked child. She was also a bastard. But she had Lannister blood and so couldn’t be made a servant and put to work. On the other hand, she wasn’t a fit companion for the trueborn Lannister children, so she couldn’t attend their lessons or be included within their activities. 

No one knew what to do with her, so no one did anything. She was forgotten and left to her own devices. With no father, no mother, no minder, she often explored and played alone, desperately trying to avoid the other children. 

She was so unnoticed that she sometimes heard people speak of her mother in hushed whispers. They said Lord Lannister, her uncle, made her mother disappear. That her mother was nothing but a common trollop. That the Lord of Casterly Rock would not have her remain under his roof, eating his bread, polluting the air, corrupting his family. Her mere presence, her existence, was an insult to the Lannister name.

Joy would run and hide when she heard those whispers. She cried silently to herself, hoping that her uncle had not hurt her mother. Then she was afraid of what he might do to her, a bastard with tainted blood. Was she an insult to the Lannister name too?

But she always attended services in the sept. Because it was safe.

She did not quite understand what the septon was saying the first few years, but she was there, sitting quietly. Then one day she understood the septon’s words. The Father gave justice and protection. The Mother showed mercy. The Warrior sparked courage and the Smith gave strength. The Maiden protected young girls and the Crone inspired wisdom. And the Stranger let people rest when their life was done.

What gave her hope was they would do all of those things if she just prayed and lit a candle to them.

She’d been a small girl, she knew, desperately missing her father. It seemed so simple. The gods just needed to be reminded of their duty. So instead of sitting quietly, she began to pray quietly every day and lit a candle to each of the gods, except the Stranger, for her parents' safe return. 

She prayed to the Father that he would protect them. She prayed to the Warrior to give them courage. She prayed to the Smith to give them the strength to overcome their enemies, those that were stopping them from coming home to her. She prayed that the Mother would convince those who stopped them coming home to show mercy, to let them go on their way. And she prayed that the Crone would grant them the wisdom to be clever enough to find their way home, wherever they were. 

Sometimes she prayed the Maiden would protect her if Lord Lannister decided she was an insult to the Lannister name, like her mother had been. But she always felt guilty about those prayers. She was being selfish and she should pray for others, her parents, not herself.

But one year rolled to the next and neither her mother nor her father came home. Her prayers had gone unanswered.

Lost, alone, frightened, she continued her prayers, but she began to think of the Stranger. The only god she had not prayed to, the only one to whom she had not lit a candle. She hadn’t prayed to the Stranger, because he was only asked to guide the dead. She didn’t want her parents to be dead. She wanted them to come back and take care of her, to hug her and to love her. She became afraid her prayers to the others were wasted, that only the Stranger could visit them now.

Desperate, she tried to ask the septon after one service what she was doing wrong. He brushed her aside and told her to bring her question to a septa. So she did.

The septa had explained things. Joy was a bastard. That meant her parents weren’t married before the Seven. She was a creature born of lust and lies. She was wicked, deceitful, and treacherous by nature. She was born a sinner, would live a sinner and would die a sinner. Worse of all, the gods didn’t listen to sinners.

It all made sense then. Her prayers went unanswered because the gods weren’t listening. They’d never listen to her, no matter what she did.

She cried for a few days after that, but then she came back to the sept. She didn’t pray. It wouldn’t do any good. Instead she sat quietly and watched the colors. It was safe.

Then her life changed for a second time. Her cousin, Tyrion, found her in the sept. She liked Tyrion and sometimes saw him around the Rock. His rooms were near hers, out of the way. But he never really spoke to her. Everyone said he was busy at taverns and brothels, whatever those were. Still, he never hurt her and never outright ignored her, so that made him one of her favorite relatives.

He didn’t notice her at first. She liked to sit in the corners, out of the way, where she was less likely to be noticed. He seemed to be following the piping, making notes on parchment as he went. She had never seen him in the sept before, even during service. That made her curious. Since he’d never hurt her, she found the courage to speak. 

“Hello, cousin Tyrion. Have you come to pray?” She gave him a shy smile, the one that the senior cook had said was worth an extra slice of lemon cake. 

“Joy,” he’d said, with a delighted smile, happy to see her, now that she’d made him aware of her presence. “No. I’m tracing the pipes. Father has made me the Master of Sewers and Drains.”

Joy noticed that he spoke in a darkly humorous tone, as if he didn’t think his father had given him a very important job. That confused her. She wasn’t sure, but sewers and drains seemed to be important things, and he was their Master, which made him very important. So she’d told him so, causing him to laugh.

“I could see how you would think that, child,” he said, smiling as he ruffled her hair. Joy liked that. No one had ruffled her hair since father. “It’s my job to get them running properly again, so you’re right. That is important. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at your lessons?”

Joy smiled at her short cousin. He’s always been nice to her and never made her feel afraid. 

“I don’t have lessons, cousin Tyrion,” she’d responded. “I’m a bastard and bastards don’t get lessons. I might corrupt the trueborn children.”

He’d looked shocked. “Has anyone been teaching you your letters? Your numbers?”

He’d grown angry when she denied it. It made her afraid at first, but then she realized he wasn’t angry with her, but angry with himself for not noticing sooner, and then with the rest of the family. According to him, it was not right that a Lannister, even one with the name Hill, didn’t know how to read or write at age eight.

Tyrion told Aunt Genna. She was even more angry than Tyrion. It made her feel bad when she heard that Aunt Genna had punished several servants for neglecting her. 

But she was no longer ignored. In the morning she had lessons with one of the maesters and other girls. Not trueborn Lannister girls, but the daughters of stewards, guard officers, master smiths, and other non-noble functionaries of Casterly Rock. 

She also made her first and only friend, Gwenys, who was the daughter of the kennel master. They had an alliance that only kindred spirits could enjoy. Joy showed her all the secret places she had discovered in her exploring Casterly Rock and Gwenys took her into the kennel to play with the hounds. 

Instead of being alone and quiet all the time, sometimes she was running and laughing deep into the Rock, finding new secret places. Sometimes they were outside the Rock, in the small forest that Lord Lannister liked to hunt, chasing her dogs and sometimes being chased. It was fun, though occasionally she thought of her parents and felt guilty. Maybe it was wrong to feel safe and happy without them?

But she could only play sometimes with Gwenys. Her friend had a large family and a sick grandmother and so she often couldn’t play. But it was nice to play sometimes, so she didn’t complain.

All her afternoons were spent with Aunt Genna. She was taught to embroider and stitch, which she thought was quite fun. Some of the older women, friends of her aunt, delighted in teaching her. They claimed that not many young girls had the patience to sit quietly and work. Slowly but surely, her stitches became neat and straight. Soon, she was stitching designs into fabric, to her aunt's visible pride. 

She saw that Aunt Genna did not like to do a lot of talking. Her aunt would ask an innocent question of one of the ladies, and then they’d all gossip for hours and hours about whatever came up. Aunt Genna just sat there, listening, nodding her head and encouraging the conversation. 

Joy emulated her aunt. If asked a question, she’d smile, respond simply, and ask a question in return. Besides, she had a lot of practice with being quiet.

A few years later, Joy overheard her aunt speaking to Uncle Kevan. She’d informed him that a captain of a very important gate was dissatisfied with his assignment and that one of the city Lannisters was trading with the Tyrells. 

A few days later, the captain was transferred to a remote, much less important post, far away from the Rock, where he was less likely to do damage if he became bitter. He seemed even less happy, but he and his family went. 

Joy had thought him wise to go quietly. When she went outside to the woods to play with Gwenys, or ride her horse alone, there was always a collection of spiked heads on display of those who had displeased Lord Lannister.

The city Lannister had been called in to speak with Lord Lannister. He left pale and fearful. Joy thought Lord Lannister must have told him he was an insult to the name. She wondered if he’d be made to disappear, like her mother.

It was then that she finally realized what Aunt Genna was doing during her afternoon stitching sessions with the ladies of Casterly Rock. She was collecting information. The ladies gossiped and didn’t realize they were telling her everything about their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons. Aunt Genna then told Uncles Kevan or Tywin.

Joy thought Aunt Genna was cleverer than Varys, the King’s Master of Whispers. Lord Varys had to send spies out in secret to get information. Aunt Genna had the women of Casterly Rock coming to her and volunteering it.

Joy had kept that revelation to herself. She sat quietly, smiled prettily when complimented, and stitched.

Other than Aunt Genna, the only other Lannisters that had paid any attention to her were her cousins, Tyrion and Jaime. But she only occasionally saw them as they were very busy.

Tyrion spent a lot of his time in Lannisport doing things everyone disapproved of, though Joy wasn’t sure what those things were. She wondered if it involved the sewers and drains. She knew people didn’t like sewers, but they were important. She thought Tyrion was very dutiful to work on them so she didn’t know why they’d disapprove of him so much. She’d noticed that the water of the Rock flowed much better than it had before Tyrion started his work. The Rock hardly smelled at all, now.

Jaime visited less than Tyrion. That was only to be expected, Joy had thought. He was a knight and often away fighting battles or guarding the king. 

But sometimes they’d checked on her and she always enjoyed it when they did.

When Tyrion mentioned that she was lonely, cousin Jaime had taught her to ride a horse. She thought that was the best thing ever. On a horse, she was free. She could go so fast sometimes she thought she could outpace the wind and leave all her troubles behind. Jaime told her she was a very good rider and if he didn’t know both her parents, he’d think she was half horse. 

Then he’d given her a horse as a gift for her ninth name day. It was a small gelding she decided to name Star as he had a white star shaped mark on his forehead. Star was a gentle horse but fast. He never grew tired, though Jaime said that was because she was so light he couldn’t feel the weight. She counted Star as her second best friend and thought he was the best gift ever. 

She’d felt guilty thinking that, as she knew she had good gifts from, and good memories of, her parents, but those memories were growing hazy and dim. The thought that she was forgetting her parents distressed her. She started lying awake at night reminding herself of all the things she still remembered, so she wouldn’t forget those like she had others. She’d cried for days when she realized even their faces were growing dim in her memory.

Her regular lessons came to an end when the maester finally reported that Joy could read, write and do simple sums. Now she had more time to ride Star and play with Gwenys, though cousin Tyrion appeared upset that she wouldn’t be receiving the more advanced lessons given to trueborn Lannisters. She didn’t mind, though. Books were interesting, but not as interesting as Gwenys or Star.

Once he stopped being angry with Lord Lannister and the maester, he decided to teach her to play cyvasse as a reward for completing her lessons so quickly. He said the game would teach her how to think logically, and was a better teacher than any maester. The game was complicated and she learned slowly but Tyrion was patient. She never beat him but as time passed, she did lose slower. 

He’d even gifted her a cyvasse set, a simple one of colored woods, when she turned twelve. He made her blush bright red when he insisted even as a child she was better than Jaime and Uncle Kevan. 

He’d even claimed that she might someday become better than Uncle Tywin, but that did not make Joy feel good. She was sure that it would be a very bad idea for her to beat Lord Lannister at cyvasse. He might decide that her existence was an insult to the Lannister name and make her vanish like her mother.

When she said that to Tyrion, he’d looked sad. Worse, he agreed. He started drinking too much wine then and she had to half carry him to his rooms that night. Fortunately, she was strong for her age and he was small.

The next morning he apologized for getting too drunk. He then surprised her. He promised he’d do whatever it took to protect her, no matter what and no matter from whom.

She believed him, or at least believed he would try. While she was sure that Jaime and Genna cared for her, she knew they wouldn’t protect her from Lord Lannister. Aunt Genna was too loyal to her brother to oppose him, though she might speak out. Cousin Jaime was brave in almost everything, but had a habit of running away when Lord Lannister did something he didn’t like. He wouldn’t fight his father, and certainly not for his bastard cousin. 

She didn’t even think Tyrion could protect her, but she knew he’d try. That, she decided, counted for something and made her feel good.

So she promised the same. He smiled when she did and she knew he didn’t think she could. But she could tell he liked hearing it.

Her life had changed for the third time shortly after her thirteenth birthday. Both cousins Jaime and Tyrion had traveled to the North with the King and Queen. She thought that was exciting but she had no idea how their travels would change her life.

Aunt Genna had found her at the sept sitting quietly and watching the colors. Gwenys was sitting with her bedridden grandmother and Star was being re-shoed, so she thought it best that she stay out of the way. The sept was perfect for that.

She told her that Tywin, as she called Lord Lannister, wanted to meet her in his solar. That scared her. She’d never been in his solar before. A small part of her worried that he was going to send her away. She was partly right.

He sat behind his desk for a long while, working, before he looked up at her. Joy knew Aunt Genna was amused by the delay, as she had long ago learned to read her aunt’s smiles. But Joy remembered feeling scared at first when looking into his cold, dispassionate eyes. 

It was then she realized for the first time that she and Lord Lannister shared the same eyes, bright green flecked with gold. Though she was sure hers did not look so cruel. 

Strangely, it was their shared eyes that gave her hope that she was not going to be made to disappear. Though she worried when she thought he might not remember they had the same eyes because they had different hair. His was golden, but thinning, and hers was more a curling, red-gold. 

Aunt Genna said her hair was twice a blessing, and that many had been envious of her mother’s vibrant red and her father’s shining gold. But her eyes were all her father’s. Eyes he’d shared with his brother, Tywin Lannister.

Her eyes proved her connection to Lord Lannister. She remembered Aunt Genna saying how much he valued family. Even if she was the least of the least among the Lannisters, she still shared his blood and was family, she realized. He couldn’t deny her. That meant he valued her, even if only a little bit. 

That made her feel confident she wasn’t going to share whatever fate her mother had suffered. A small spark of anger rose in her thinking of what might have happened to her mother and who was responsible. 

She suppressed it. Lord Lannister was a full grown, fierce lion, and she was still, and likely would always be, a blind and weak cub. 

She curtsied as she’d been taught. “You called for me, my lord?” She saw out of the corner of her eye that Aunt Genna was looking at her with affection, maybe even something that approached pride.

He looked at her a long moment, making her nervous, before replying. “You are now betrothed to Jon Snow. He is the bastard of Lord Stark of the North. You will marry as soon as can be arranged. You and your husband will be granted Castamere. Do you understand?”

She’s stood frozen for a second, her heart beating rapidly. She knew her trueborn cousins had arranged marriages. It never occurred to her that she’d have one too. She thought she was safe because she was a bastard, cursed in the eyes of the Seven. She didn’t even want to marry. 

She knew that many women were married to men that were cruel to them, who did things to them that hurt. Often, they died having babies they didn’t want but their husbands forced them to have, even against the maester’s advice. Aunt Genna’s ladies had discussed these things often enough, shaking their heads in pity and disapproval, but they never stopped the bad things from happening.

She wanted to play with Gwenys. She wanted to ride Star and stitch with Aunt Genna. She wanted to play cyvasse with cousin Tyrion and sometimes watch the colors in the sept. She did not want to marry.

Then clarity pierced the shock of her mind. Lord Lannister was not asking her. He was telling her. And bad things happened to those who disobeyed Lord Lannister.

Then another thought. She was going to be given Castamere. She’d heard of it. All the trueborn Lannisters wanted it. Castamere was rich. Castamere was powerful. With Castamere she’d be rich and powerful. It would be harder for people to hurt her, even Lord Lannister, if she had Castamere.

Then she remembered the song. Castamere would not protect her from Lord Lannister. But, she hoped, it might protect her from others. It certainly meant she wouldn’t be made to disappear like her mother.

Then with growing dread she realized that the trueborn Lannisters would be angry. They wanted Castamere. They wouldn’t like it if she had it. They’d certainly would try to take it from her, make her hurt for having something they wanted.

Once her thoughts settled, she smiled timidly, the smile she used when she thought people might want to hurt her. The smile worked, sometimes. 

She remembered those times it didn’t. She pushed those memories aside.

“Castamere is too much, my lord. I’m just a bastard and tainted.” She curtsied again, hoping he wouldn’t take offense at her words.

He stared at her dispassionately for a few moments. Then he did something which surprised her. He smiled. It was a kind smile, and wholly unexpected. “I know what you are thinking, Joy. You are right. It is too much. There are those who will try to take Castamere from you and your husband. But you are my blood, the blood of Lann the Clever. You will take it and you will hold it.”

He handed her a scroll tied with a red ribbon. “And you are also wrong. You are a Lannister, now. You are no longer a bastard. No more hiding behind fake smiles, no more fear, no more false humility. No matter the past, you are more than Stark’s bastard deserves. You are a Lion of Casterly Rock.”

Joy didn’t open the scroll. She knew if she did it might be an insult, might be construed as doubting his word. She stopped her smile of apology, she didn’t want to make him angry by disobeying, and curtsied again. “Yes, my lord,” she responded, but she couldn’t help but speak in a small voice, her head down.

He frowned at her, before waving his hand in dismissal. “Genna, see to it that she knows her duty.”

Aunt Genna had placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Of course I will, Tywin,” she said scathingly. Joy was surprised she was so unafraid of Lord Lannister. Joy knew she’d never have that courage. 

Joy curtsied again as she left the solar guided by Aunt Genna. Her aunt explained what was expected of her. She didn’t want to but knew she had no choice. When they reached Aunt Genna’s apartments, she helped her write a letter to Jon Snow. 

To her surprise, Aunt Genna knew more of her inner thoughts than she anticipated. To her even greater surprise, she had her put those thoughts into the letter to her betrothed.

“Why?” she’d asked simply.

Aunt Genna pulled her close and gave her a kiss on top of her head. “Because I have no daughter. Because you are clever and sweet, and deserve to be happy.” She kissed Joy once more on her forehead, crushing her close. Her green eyes were bright with compassion. It made Joy nervous, though she liked it. “Because love requires honesty, and I want you to have a chance to experience something you’ve lacked for much of your life.”

The letter was sent. A reply was received a few weeks later. Jon had accepted the proposal. And so Joy’s life changed again, for a fourth time.

Lord Lannister interpreted Jon’s letter as his consent for marriage, even if only by proxy. He convinced the septon to see things his way. Pale and shaking, casting repeated fearful glances at her uncle, the septon married her to Jon. Cousin Tyrion, as steward of Castamere, stood as his proxy.

Once the ceremony was over, Tyrion too gave her a kiss on her forehead, though he had to stand on his toes and she had to lean down so he could. She didn’t know why she was receiving so many hugs and kisses recently from Aunt Genna and Tyrion, but a secret part of her admitted she liked them. Even if she felt guilty because they weren’t from her parents.

Like Aunt Genna’s, the look he gave her was full of compassion. “I promised I’d look after you, and I’ve been fulfilling that promise. Castamere will be strong and rich and you will want nothing by the time I am done, Joy. I promise you that.”

She gave him the small smile she used to say thank you when she didn’t know whether she was truly thankful. She knew Lord Lannister had forbidden these smiles, but it was a hard habit to break. He’d also said she was a lion, she remembered. It was time to gather her courage.

“And Jon?” She asked quietly, half hopeful and half afraid. “Should I be thankful for him?” 

Tyrion’s smile grew wide. “You should be thankful for him most of all, sweet cousin. The poets would call him so handsome he’s beautiful, and go on for several verses about his storm grey eyes and raven black curls. He’s tall, and slender, and strong. Many a young maiden would swoon over him if given half a chance.”

She looked at him skeptically. She remembered the gossip concerning men over whom girls swooned. Aunt Genna made sure she’d paid particular attention. It wasn’t nice. 

“I’m not certain that women swooning over my husband is a good thing, cousin Tyrion,” she said with exasperation.

He took her arm in his as he walked away from the sept toward the godswood. “With Jon, it is, sweetling,” he responded smugly. “The boy is so painfully unaware and naive, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He’s intelligent, serious, dutiful and ever so much a prude. Why he hasn’t worked his way through half the girls in Winterfell is beyond me. I blame his upbringing. Lord Stark is much the same way.”

“You make him sound perfect,” she said dubiously. In her experience, there were no perfect people, though some people tried harder than others to be good. Life was not a song. If it were, she’d still have her parents, she thought sadly.

He snorted. “Hardly. He’s a moody git and often sulks. He is closed off and sometimes I think his face is carved from ice. I hear he has a bit of a temper. Like the good, I blame the bad on Lord Stark’s parenting decisions. But he’s a far better man the most, Joy. I think he can make you happy,” he said sincerely.

“Will I be able to make him happy, though? Will he like me?” She knew she sounded like a child, uncertain and afraid, but she was still a bit of a child and she was talking to Tyrion. He would understand.

He laughed. He gave her a mock leer as he blew her a kiss as he began to walk away. “Never doubt it, Joy. You are very beautiful and are more than woman enough to make any man happy.” He stopped as a thought crossed his face. “When Jaime and Jon cease their wandering and return to the Rock, you might want to suggest that you and he have another ceremony in the godswood. He follows the old gods, not the Seven, and he might appreciate the gesture.”

She nodded in understanding. Tyrion’s words and advice were mildly reassuring, though she was uncertain about his compliment on her looks. Some people claimed she looked much like her cousin, Cersei, though she knew the red in her hair and the freckles across her face ruined her looks. But he had tried to reassure her so she gave him a kiss on his forehead, returning the favor, and went to attend her aunt.

After the ceremony, she was pleased to see that her rooms had been moved closer to her aunt’s. She was provided servants and much higher quality clothing. Tyrion even sent her money by way of an allowance, saying that the Lady of Castamere should always have gold in her purse. She liked all of those changes.

She didn’t like others. Her aunt began to monopolize her mornings. She’d never known this before, but her aunt served as Lady of the Rock as Lord Lannister’s wife was deceased. She inspected the kitchens, supervised the servants, and reviewed the household accounts. She woke with the sun to accomplish these tasks and she expected Joy to do the same.

Once, when she was reviewing a particularly difficult bookkeeping entry, Aunt Genna caught her scowling. “What appears to be the problem, dear?”

“I don’t understand why I need to know this. Won’t Jon and I have a steward?” She knew she sounded petulant, but it was difficult to care with the headache she was experiencing.

“Yes, you will,” her aunt had replied fondly. “But stewards are human. They steal. They make mistakes. It is your job as the Lady of Castamere to ensure the books are correct.” Her tone hardened. “Otherwise you may lose everything. Do you understand me, Joy?”

She nodded numbly, and returned the column of figures. Her aunt was right. She was poor once and didn’t want to be so again. A headache was a small price to pay to ensure the accounting was correct.

As time went on, her ability to help her aunt improved. The book work, inspections and supervision of the servants became easier. 

And when she discovered some of her childhood tormentors were now servants in the Rock, she took great pleasure in assigning them the most menial and disgusting tasks. She knew it was cruel, but had a hard time caring. It felt good to see their exhausted and distressed faces for a change. 

Their pleas for forgiveness fell on deaf ears. She was a Lannister now. And a Lannister always paid her debts. 

She expected Jon and Jaime to return quickly after the proxy marriage. They had a castle to run, after all, and a marriage to consummate. Aunt Genna had been clear that it was critical that she give Jon children as soon as possible. But one month became two, two months became three, then the months became a year, and then another. More time passed. Neither her husband nor her cousin appeared.

At first, she thought she was the problem, that Jon did not want her. Then he started sending letters. They were short and weren’t overly affectionate, but they were steady and provided clarity as to what he and her cousin were doing. They also proved to her that he cared, at least a little. 

Jaime was playing knight errant. He was wandering aimlessly. Jon, as his squire, was compelled to follow. Jon seemed confused by it, but he did describe the places they visited and the battles they’d fought. She was proud when she read of not one, but three tourney victories in the melee. He had even placed sixth in a joust, though cousin Jaime was grumbling that wasn’t good enough and assigned him extra practice.

His letters made it hard for her to be angry with him. She replied to every one when he told her where they were headed next, though sometimes he didn’t know. She didn’t have much personal to say, as she doubted he was interested in embroidery, gossip, accounting, or her rides with Gwenys and her hounds, but she did try to be encouraging and praise his accomplishments. 

She was especially proud of his winning Lord Darry’s harping contest. Unlike the squires’ tournaments he’d won, anyone was allowed to compete. Jon must be very good, she thought, to outperform all those knights, minstrels, and other lords and ladies. 

And when she read he’d donated his winnings to a motherhouse for orphaned girls, she’d cried. Those girls are probably a lot like me, she’d thought. A few of her tears may have smudged the ink on her return letter.

She did her best to provide updates to him of Tyrion’s progress with Castamere, though she really only repeated what Tyrion told her. She was careful not to say anything which didn’t come from her cousin directly, as the servants were already sharing strange gossip and she didn’t want to alarm him. The rumors that Tyrion was a sorcerer, practicing ancient and forbidden blood magic, and raising walls and towers overnight were obviously ridiculous. 

Though she did overhear some of the knights and skilled tradesmen discussing her cousin in a hushed and respectful tone one evening when they were deep in their cups. Tyrion’s progress was frighteningly fast compared with initial estimates. What should have taken a decade or two, he was accomplishing in less than a handful of years. 

The servants' rumors weren’t worth considering. And Tyrion’s ability and effectiveness should have been readily apparent to anyone who had paid attention to his career as Master of Drains and Sewers. 

So Joy contented herself with updating Jon when the mine tunnels and chambers of Castamere were drained, when the curtain walls and towers were restored, and when a second set of curtain walls and towers were built. 

She had difficulty keeping her pride in her cousin’s work contained, when she communicated to Jon that he’d started two villages, both with space to grow into towns. One was at Castamere. The other was a fishing village called Flea’s Landing, after the area its inhabitants immigrated from. Tyrion was considering building a small harbor for the village.

Her most recent letter had informed Jon that he was building barbicans in front of each of the three gatehouses of the outer wall. The work on the outer and inner walls were finished, though he still needed the men to fully garrison the castle and eventual town.

Joy was an intelligent young lady. But she had no experience in castle construction or mining. Otherwise, she would have realized her letters would have been read with some consternation by both Jon and Jaime.

She did let her husband know that Lord Lannister was wroth with Jaime. Lord Lannister did not approve of his son playing knight errant, protecting the weak and innocent. After the King had lifted the white cloak from his shoulders, Lord Tywin thought Jaime should be back in Casterly Rock doing his duty. 

Joy didn’t understand that. Jaime was a knight. He was doing his duty in protecting the smallfolk, even if it was in the far North, the Riverlands, Vale and Crownlands. She wished he was closer so they could at least visit, though the thought of meeting Jon caused some trepidation. She’d have to try to give him children and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet.

Lord Lannister was unhappy, however, and so she made sure her husband knew. She didn’t want him to be surprised if he decided to punish them. She couldn’t protect him, but she could keep him informed, as a good wife should.

Then came word that Jon and Jaime were heading back to Casterly Rock. The message sent by raven indicated that they were three days out. The servants were thrown into a whirlwind of activity. Tyrion came back to escort her and Jon to Castamere, and awaited his brother and his lord, which Jon technically was, to her surprise. Even Lord Lannister seemed to be in a better mood. He didn’t smile, he rarely did, but he looked less thunderous than usual.

And so she found herself again, sitting in the sept, quiet and alone, waiting for her life to change for a fifth time.

SJ SJ SJ

AN: The horse named Star that is fast and seems to run forever is a shout out to Corwin’s horse in the Chronicles of Amber by Roger Zelazny. If you haven’t read them yet (starting with Nine Princes in Amber), I highly recommend his writing.

This chapter is my longest yet in this story at over 7,000 words. I normally target 2,000 to 4,000. It was also the hardest chapter to write so I apologize for the delay. Trying to find a traumatized girl’s voice, aged 4 to 16, is tough for me. Specifically trying to show her as a mix of clever, kind, manipulative, scared, brave, loyal, and sometimes cruel was also hard. 

Next chapter is Jon and Joy, though I do too much head hopping and have to fix it.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter takes place at the same time as Chapter 10. Jon is 17 and Joy is 16.

SJ SJ SJ

Joy stood quietly between her cousin Tyrion and her aunt Genna. Ser Jaime and her husband, Jon, had been sighted and would be arriving in moments. Lord Lannister had ordered the more senior household to meet his heir at the outer courtyard. He’d sent a servant to escort her here from the sept.

Her stomach roiled. She felt sick. She’d known this day was coming for years but now that it was here, she wished she could put it off just a bit longer.

They were all present, except Tywin. Lord Lannister did not wait for others, they waited for him. He’d left orders that Jaime was to attend him in his solar the moment he arrived.

The outermost courtyard stood just behind the Lion Gate. The massive gatehouse, which itself was the size of many strong castles, guarded the island entrance to the Rock. It was cut out of solid stone. The outer face was carved in the shape of a lion’s maw.

A narrow channel separated the Rock from the mainland. The only land based approach to the Rock was a long stone bridge that connected the Lion’s Gate to Casterly’s Gate. The latter was located on the mainland, situated on a stone bluff overlooked by the Rock and the Sunset Sea. It was as large and strong as the Lion’s Gate, though more traditionally built from cut stone and mortar.

Only the most trusted castellans were awarded the command of the Lion’s Gate or Casterly’s Gate. Over thousands of years of their rule, the Lannisters had refused all requests that the lordship of either be made hereditary. 

Instead, a careful watch was kept on the Lannister castellans, who were changed the moment the loyalty of one was in doubt, whether that doubt was real or imagined. Even a loyal castellan knew better than to hope that their sons would inherit their positions. While occasionally this would breed discontent, more often they noticed that their sons were given keeps and manors at the end of their service, and so were satisfied.

Casterly Rock had never fallen. Joy had been taught that was largely due to the strength of these two gates. While determined enemies had sometimes taken the Casterly Gate, they’d always failed to breach the Lion’s Gate. 

No enemy had ever had the opportunity to test the internal defenses of the Rock. Tyrion had assured her that these defenses were just as strong as the Lion’s Gate, if not stronger. The Rock would stand unconquered so long as there were Lannisters brave enough to defend it.

There were other outer gates that allowed entrance to the Rock. Two sat at its base and allowed a seaward approach from the Rock’s small harbor. One was exclusive for the mines with no direct access into the Rock proper, those routes long having been closed off. The other allowed resupply to the castle by sea, but only after following a long, steep switchback path. Though a cage and pulley system was often lowered to raise supplies up directly from the harbor and into the castle, which avoided the need for undertaking the arduous path.

A third additional outer gate stood at the forested top of the Rock protected by a strong, but ancient ringfort. It was used to allow transport of the game and produce locally grown on the Rock’s many garden terraces into the castle’s interior. It also served as a final refuge if all other defenses failed. The ringfort’s gate was designed to protect from an attack from both within and without the Rock.

Even if any of these gates were breached, an invader would have to pass through many internal gates before they’d reach the inner, vital core of the Lannister home. The inhabitants of the Rock were as safe from harm as the artifice of man allowed.

Joy had been raised a bastard. Despite her outcast status, she’d taken pride in the strength of the Lannister’s home. This pride was uniformly shared by the servants and soldiers housed within the Rock. While Lord Lannister was an overwhelming and oppressive presence, and all rightly feared him, they also respected the strength of the family and basked in the reflected glory.

It was not long until Joy saw a retinue approach. They were about sixteen strong, all mounted and armored. Even to Joy’s unpracticed eye they were well disciplined, riding four abreast stirrup to stirrup, with no disruption in their ranks, despite the many garrons being led by halter lines. They were flying Lannister banners, the red long since faded to pink and the sheen of the golden Lion had dulled to a copperish color. 

It was easy to recognize her cousin, Jaime, as he was the only one not wearing a helm. His armor was also the most distinctive by far. It was tinted gold, though it was considerably more battered than when she saw it last. All the others in his entourage were attired in well worn but functional plate and mail, all without adornment. 

Try as she might, she could not determine which was her husband, as all, including Jaime, wore torn, ripped, and faded Lannister surcoats over their armor. 

She frowned as she considered the banners and surcoats in an effort to distract her troubled thoughts. Some could be salvaged with some neat needlework, but others were a lost cause. They’d have to be cleaned and repurposed for other uses.

She barely noticed when Jaime dismounted, followed by his men. To her surprise, there was at least one woman among their number when they removed their helmets. Despite her anxious inspection, none of them matched Tyrion’s description of Jon.

The castellan, Ser Harys, approached Jaime and bowed. Tyrion and Genna followed, so Joy trailed behind them.

“Welcome to the Rock, Ser Jaime. Your return has long been anticipated,” Ser Harys said sincerely. Ser Harys was an old knight, long in the service of House Lannister. Joy knew that Lord Lannister valued him for both his loyalty and caution, which was a desirable trait for one tasked with guarding a fortress. 

Even now there was a company of spearmen hidden out of sight who would move to block access to the Rock if Ser Harys gave the word. Another company of crossbowmen were hidden behind the battlements and in the machicolations of the Lion’s Gate. The Rock would not be breached by imposters on Ser Harys’s watch.

Joy felt her heart lift when her cousin smiled. It was a brilliant, heart warming smile and was in complete contrast to his reputation for arrogance. She’d missed him, she realized. She’d long since learned to suppress her anxiety with family leaving, since neither her tears nor prayers to the gods had proved effective in making them stay or return.

“It is good to be back, Ser Harys,” Jaime said as he took his arm before slapping him on the shoulder. He then turned to embrace Aunt Genna, kissing her on both cheeks.

Jaime purposefully ignored Tyrion, stepping past him as he took Joy by her shoulders and truly looked at her. “You’ve grown,” he said, in a voice that was both amazed and almost sad. “Are you still riding Star?” 

She smiled timidly, not sure how to react. “Almost every day,” she replied softly. “I’ve missed you.” She did not resist when he pulled her close and wrapped his strong arms around her. The steel of his breastplate was warm to the touch. She was proud when she didn’t allow herself to cry.

The Lannisters were a large family, and Joy was now officially a member. But none of her many cousins had approached her. Uncle Kevan was polite but distant. In truth, Joy could only muster any family feeling for Tyrion, Genna and Jaime. And like her parents, Jaime had been gone for years. Having him return was opening a flood gate of emotion, including long abandoned hope. If he came back, maybe her parents would also.

The ever practical Genna interrupted their moment. “Jaime, your father wants to see you immediately. You have years of unresolved business to discuss,” she said in a scolding voice. Then she cupped her hands around his face. “It’s good to see you again, nephew.” She gently kissed his forehead, welcoming him home.

Joy saw Jaime hesitate before he gathered his courage. It was disappointing. Of all Lord Lannister’s children, he was the most blessed, the strongest physically, the most beautiful. If he ever found the courage to oppose his father, many would support him. She doubted that he ever would, surreptitiously watching the emotions that crossed his face.

Finally, he nodded decisively. “Ser Harys, please see that my men and horses are settled. I’ll check back with them later.” He hesitated again. “Jon,” he called behind his shoulder. “My brother,” he scowled as he said the word, still not looking at Tyrion, “will handle introductions.” With that he strode into the Rock, making his way toward his father’s solar, not seeing Tyrion roll his eyes at his retreating back.

A tall and broad shouldered young man, wearing a more complete set of platemail than his companions, approached them. Joy saw that he was dark haired and bearded, though both were cut very short. A prominent scar ran across his face and nose diagonally. His nose appeared to have been broken several times, as it was crooked and somewhat collapsed in the middle. One of his ears was a mangled mess. Though young, he looked to be the veteran of a dozen engagements.

He bowed. “Lord Tyrion, it is good to see you again,” he said with a smile. “Ladies,” he continued, with a bow to Genna and Joy. 

Despite his battered appearance, his voice was very pleasant, Joy thought, somewhat dismayed. It slowly occurred to her that this was Jon. At least it looked as if he had all of his teeth. 

Tyrion stepped forward, his eyes filled with concern as he grasped Jon’s offered hand. “What happened to you, Jon?” he demanded.

Jon laughed. Joy thought it a beautiful laugh. Well, there is at least one beautiful thing about him, she thought, remembering Tyrion’s description. My cousin did not completely deceive me.

“Your brother happened, my lord, and the occasional ironborn or bandit. Ser Jaime has little patience with squires who move too slowly on the practice field. He was quite motivating, though the lessons took some time to sink in.”

Tyrion nodded slowly. “I did not think he would be so rough with you,” he half apologized. “None of our cousins were quite so damaged as a result of his instruction.”

Jon shrugged. “Your brother had high expectations of me. He’d become upset if I didn’t meet them.”

“So is this my niece’s husband?” Aunt Genna impatiently interjected. She was obviously tired of waiting for Tyrion to remember his manners and make introductions.

Her cousin looked abashed. “Forgive me,” he said contritely, nodding his head briefly to Genna. “Jon Lannister, formerly Snow, please let me introduce you to my aunt, Genna Frey, formerly Lannister, and my cousin, Joy Lannister.”

Joy noticed that he left off her former bastard name of Hill. She wondered why he’d do that, as he gave Jon’s former name.

Joy curtsied but kept her eyes down. Until she had his measure, she didn’t want to offend him by staring too directly. Too many husbands hurt their wives. And Tyrion’s assurances didn’t seem as reliable as before, considering his deception regarding his appearance. 

Aunt Genna had no such inhibitions. She ignored everyone around them, including the squires and servants who were leading horses to stables and equipment to barracks, as she stepped up to Jon. She reached out and grabbed that portion of his bicep that wasn’t covered by armor and squeezed. “Good,” she said, half to herself. She looked Jon in the eye. “Bring your head closer and open your mouth. I want to see your teeth.”

Jon looked nonplussed as he complied. To Joy’s surprise she put a finger in his mouth and ran it over his teeth, brushed her hand over his hair, moved his head this way and that, and circled his body poking and prodding. It reminded Joy of what men might do when inspecting a horse before purchase.

By the time she was done, Jon’s face was bright red with embarrassment. 

“He’ll do,” she said when she was finally done.

Tyrion snorted. “Now that we know you aren’t going to send my cousin’s husband to the knacker’s yard, can we allow time for the two to get to know each other alone?”

Joy was not surprised when her aunt shook her head and said, “No. Not yet. First, we’ll take them to the godswood and we’ll serve as witnesses to their marriage before the heart’s tree.” She looked at Jon critically, as if daring him to gainsay her. “You do follow the old gods, don’t you boy?”

Joy remembered that her cousin had suggested that they remarry before the godswood when Jon arrived. A few years ago, she thought it was because Jon was a follower of the old gods and they wanted him to feel comfortable with the marriage. She now thought that was only partly true. 

Now that she was older and more aware, she knew there were more pragmatic reasons for the suggestion. Jon’s consent to their marriage was not as solid as Aunt Genna and Tyrion would prefer, though it was sufficient for Lord Lannister to run roughshod over the septon. But a strong argument could be made that he’d only accepted her proposal, not that he’d agreed to be married by proxy. 

Aunt Genna wanted another ceremony so that there was no doubt they were husband and wife before they consummated the marriage. Otherwise he might, if he were unscrupulous, use the defect in the ceremony to later set her aside, making any of their children bastards. Lord Lannister hadn’t cared, or if he had, not much, as his only focus at the time was to fulfill the agreement that saw Jaime released from his oaths. 

Tyrion thought Jon would never do such a thing. Aunt Genna, on the other hand, was far less trusting.

Jon had apparently collected his wits. His face was now an impassive mask, as he nodded his head in agreement. It did look like it was carved from ice, Joy thought. Tyrion was also honest about that. She wondered why Tyrion had insisted on telling her that Jon was beautiful. She would have married him even if he’d been old, fat and toothless, if Lord Lannister commanded. 

“Good. Tyrion, you will escort me. Jon, take Joy’s arm and follow us,” her aunt commanded.

He offered her arm and she accepted it as they trailed behind Genna and Tyrion. As they walked, she noticed that Jon was stiff, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t want to be here, she thought, disappointed. 

She was even more disappointed when she noticed that he was wearing a lady’s favor on his other arm. A white and grey scarf, or at least it used to be. Now it was a tattered rag, the colors long since faded due to exposure to the elements. It was stained with sweat and blood. It really was a disgusting, ratty looking thing. He must have truly loved the woman who gifted it to continue wearing it in that state. 

Joy did not consider herself selfish. She was a good girl and would marry who she was told to marry. She would do what she was told to support the family. She didn’t even expect her husband to love her, despite Tyrion’s assurances. Though, she admitted, she’d gotten her hopes up reading his letters.

She did, however, think the least he could do was not flaunt his relationship with another woman before her and the entire world. He could at least show her the courtesy of being discrete if his affections rested with another.

She felt something stir within her breast that she’d long kept suppressed. Dimly, she was surprised to feel herself grow hot with anger.

She slowed her pace allowing some space to open up between them and Tyrion and Genna. “Who is she?” She was proud that she kept her voice level, even if she wanted to scream in frustration. Why Tyrion had built up her hopes, why she allowed herself to feel hope, she didn’t know, but she was beginning to hate him and herself for it.

Jon turned his head stiffly to look down on her. He was much taller, she noticed through the haze of her thoughts. She didn’t even reach his shoulder. 

“What?” He asked, his eyes wide with confusion. 

“The woman. The woman whose favor you are so obviously wearing.” Her voice was faint and distant in her own ears. She vaguely noticed that his eyes were a dark grey, and almost seemed purple in the reflected sunlight. Tyrion was right about his eyes too, she conceded grimly. They were beautiful, like dark storm clouds thick with rain.

It made his lies about the constancy of Jon’s heart hurt even more. Why would he deceive her on some things but not others?

She felt her rage surge when she saw him smile. It was a beautiful smile, a seducer’s smile, a liar’s smile. She wanted to rip it off his face. She struggled not to let her anger out. 

“This?” he asked, pointing to the scarf wrapped around his arm, as he realized what she was referring to. He seemed amused when he did. 

If it wouldn’t have embarrassed her and her family, she would have scratched the amusement out of his eyes. How dare he think this was funny? She wanted to cry as something curled up and died inside. She knew she shouldn’t have got her hopes up. She knew the gods were not kind. This was her own fault. She had difficulty suppressing the tears that were welling up.

He seemed to sense her distress. He immediately schooled his features back into his mask, his visible amusement vanishing. “I apologize if I distressed you. I never thought how it might seem. This,” he said pointing at the scarf, “was given to me by my sister, Sansa, when I fought in the Gulltown tournament. Hers is the only favor I’ve ever worn.” A trace of guilt slipped past his mask. “I like to think it brings me luck.”

The world seemed to accelerate around her, bringing everything back into focus. The roaring in her ears died down. “Truly?” She asked, embarrassed, almost in a whisper. 

“Truly,” he repeated, as if lost. His mask slipped again. “I would never dishonor you, my lady. I have and always will hold to my vows.” His voice was thick with sincerity.

She felt like a fool. Her face burned as she looked away. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said when she finally collected her voice. “I should not have doubted you.” She felt hatred well up, this time directed at herself. She’d wrecked everything with her stupid jealousy. 

It wasn’t even as she had any real claim to him, other than a ceremony before gods who weren’t even listening to the promises exchanged. They were both born bastards, after all.

“No,” he said forcefully. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Your mistake is understandable and I was foolish not to realize how it would look, how it would shame you.” He removed his arm from hers and undid the knot holding the scarf to his arm. He handed it to her. “Take it,” he said, almost pleading, as if offering it to make amends.

She wanted to reject it, to apologize again, then a thought came to her. She could salvage this. She took the scarf and carefully wrapped it, before tucking it behind her girdle. It was in dire need of a cleaning and stitching. It wouldn’t last much longer otherwise.

The silence between them remained awkward as they continued to follow Genna and Tyrion. At least it was an embarrassed silence and not an angry silence, she thought, depressed. She remembered Aunt Genna’s statement that love required honesty.

“I’m sorry I let my temper overcome my reason, my lord,” she said quietly. “I hope I have not offended you.”

Jon’s hand reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “You have not offended me. I again beg you for forgiveness. And please, call me Jon.”

She gathered her courage. She found herself sympathizing with Jaime. Sometimes it was hard to speak, not knowing what was going to happen. “Only if you call me Joy,” she responded with the smile she used with Gwenys when they found something they both liked. She faltered. “Trust is important in love and I need you to trust me if we are going to have a marriage that is more than mere duty,” she said, as if talking to herself.

He looked confused again. She vaguely wondered if she was confusing or if the constant strikes to his head had addled his wits. “My lady?” Seeing her look, he quickly amended, “Joy?”

“My family wants us to remarry before the godswood, not to honor your traditions, but to remove any defects in the ceremony before the septon. Lord Lannister may have intentionally read more into your letter than you intended. You could escape this marriage. All you have to do is walk away.” She couldn’t believe she said the words. She knew she’d betrayed her family by saying them. Lord Lannister would be furious. She tried not to let her anxiety show.

He stopped for a moment, looking down at her impassively. “Do you want me to walk away?” His tone betrayed nothing.

She swallowed. “No, my lord.” She blushed when he gave her the same look she’d given him. “Jon,” she corrected. “Everything I wrote in that first letter remains true. And,” she hesitated, “I think I’ve grown fond of you during our exchange of letters.” She looked away so he wouldn’t see her fear. “I would like very much to remain or become your wife.”

There was a long pause. Then she felt a tug on her arm as he continued walking up the switchback path that led high up the Rock towards the godswood. “I would be proud to remain or become your husband,” she heard him say.

Relief coursed through her body. She drew in a breath, not having realized she was holding it. This time when tears threatened to well up in her eyes they were of happiness, not despair. She made sure to keep looking down so he wouldn’t see them. 

She knew it was easy for men to misunderstand a woman’s tears and what they meant. She suspected that Jon was not built for emotional displays and he might be at the end of his rope, considering her previous outburst.

The ceremony at the godswood before the heart tree was short. The twisted weirwood had consumed the godswood, choking out all other growth. It was a frightful place, she thought, though Jon seemed comfortable enough.

Her aunt had the foresight to have arranged with the servants to have her maiden’s cloak present, as well as a new cloak for Jon bearing their coat of arms. She recognized it as one she’d stitched for him after hearing of his Gulltown victory.

The words were short and to the point. Genna introduced Joy to the old gods and Tyrion did the same for Jon. Each said the words taking the other in marriage. Then Genna removed her maiden cloak and Jon placed his over her shoulders, symbolizing that she was now under his protection.

The walk back was easier as it was downhill. To Joy’s consternation, Aunt Genna led them to Joy’s apartments, not the feast hall. Tyrion had separated from them moments prior, muttering about being exhausted from the walk and needing several drinks.

She glared at Jon, even as she spoke to both of them. “Be kind to each other,” she instructed as she shooed them into the room. Seeing Joy’s confusion, she added, “If you had entered the feast hall you would have had to endure the bedding ceremony. I doubt either of you want your bodies groped and your clothes torn by strangers. This is me showing the two of you some kindness. Don’t exit your apartments until the morning if you want to avoid unwanted attention.” With that she pulled the door shut behind her, leaving them alone in the room.

Joy was grateful that there was a fire in the hearth, though it was uncomfortably warmer than she thought it would be from such a low burning flame. Jon stood there awkwardly, looking everywhere but at her. 

She remembered Tyrion’s words. Her husband was naive and oblivious. A prude. She almost laughed when she realized she probably knew more about what went on between men and women behind closed doors than he did. It was a regular source of discussion among those ladies who sewed with Aunt Genna.

She was a lioness, she reassured herself. She had no fear, whether of wolf or man. She stepped forward before she lost her courage. She took his face into her hands and searched his eyes. “I’m not afraid,” she said, then pulled him into a kiss. 

For a moment he froze, then his arms wrapped around her and he returned it. He was incredibly strong, she realized distantly, as her mind became flame. And then she lost track of time, her senses consumed by fire.

When she woke, her head was resting on his bare chest. Everything about him was hard and warm, she thought as her hand brushed his stomach. Whatever lingering embarrassment she felt about her circumstances had vanished long ago and was nothing but a dim memory.

He was deep in sleep and did not react as her hands wandered. It suddenly occurred to her looking at him that Tyrion had not lied. He was beautiful. His beauty was just concealed behind torn and twisted flesh. 

She then realized, to her shame, that his ruined visage made her happy. It meant other women would be less likely to desire him and try to steal him away. 

She was dismayed at her selfishness, and then it vanished as she realized she truly didn’t care. He was hers and no one would be taking him from her. 

She toyed with the idea of waking him, but then remembered the scarf. She slipped away, noting it was still dark out. The sun wasn’t even close to the horizon.

She sat in the chair, using the dying embers of the fire for light. A small bronze bowl was filled with water, which she used to gently clean the rag his sister’s favor had turned into. She then stitched what tears she could before hanging it to dry next to the fire.

She then looked through her own own scarves. Finally, she selected one colored red and gold. It was about the same length and same width of what remained of his sister’s. She impatiently waited for it to dry.

When it did, she stitched, overlapping the two and then joining them together into a twisting pattern. It was almost a loose ropey thing by the time she was done, with the red and gold repeatedly appearing and then vanishing as grey and white made its way to the fore. While thicker than his sister’s originally, it was still thin enough to be tied. She hoped the addition of her scarf would strengthen what remained of her goodsister’s.

When she was done, she placed it above the headboard of their bed, and then crawled back in next to him. She laid there curled tight and refused to sleep. She wanted to memorize every inch of his body. 

Which belonged only to her, she repeated to herself vehemently, as if trying to impose her will upon reality, no matter how futile she knew the effort to be. She knew her love of him was doomed, that he’d someday leave her like her parents, like everyone she cared about, but for now he was hers and she could not, would not, consider that inevitable future.

She was still awake when he stirred just before dawn. She shifted so her face was above his, her long hair framing his. She kissed the scar on his nose and caressed his wounded ear. “Good morning,” she whispered, refusing to blush.

He smiled and she knew she was lost. “Good morning,” he returned as he pulled her down on him. Then her heart danced as she again felt the consuming fire.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter overlaps with Chapter 11. This is a bit of a transition chapter. I’m trying to show how differently Tywin treats Jaime as compared to Tyrion in chapter 6. I admit I’m also cutting some corners so I can stay on track to get to Highgarden by chapter 15.

SJ SJ SJ

Tywin Lannister kept his face impassive as he observed his son, his heir. Jaime was tall, handsome, and weatherworn from three years on the road. His armor was battered and his surcoat tattered. But he looked fit. He looked happy, though Tywin could see his carefully concealed unease.

He could work with that. “Why?” he asked simply.

Jaime stood taller and squared his shoulders. Tywin had long since learned his son’s body language. Jaime was getting ready to argue with him, to defy him. That couldn’t be allowed. House Lannister must stand united.

“Why?” he asked again. “Help me understand.” Tywin hated showing weakness. Weakness bred contempt. Contempt gave rise to rebellion. But he thought Jaime sentimental enough to interpret his question as being that of a concerned father, not a weak lord.

The alternative was too terrible to contemplate. If Jaime defied him, his options were limited. It was conceivable his son might walk away from his inheritance if he pushed too hard. After all, he’d managed to survive, prosper even, despite being cut off from house support for nearly three years. If he could manage three, he could manage thirty, Tywin thought grimly.

Worse, he might openly defy him in front of the lords of the Westerlands. Jaime was not the type to plot or scheme. Tywin knew he’d never lead a rebellion against him. But his behavior could inspire others to also defy him. 

Tywin had to find a method of reasserting his authority without alienating his heir. Things were much simpler when his only concern was eradicating a rebellious house or two, he thought grimly. He was careful to keep any hint of his quandary from his face.

Jaime breathed in deeply. “All my life I have served. As a page, as a squire, as your heir. Then I served as knight and then a Kingsguard. I was told to go here, go there. I was never free.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “When Robert gave me such loosely worded orders, I took advantage. When you and Tyrion arranged for me to be released from my vows, I took advantage again.” He shrugged. “I wanted to be my own man, for once.”

Tywin nodded slowly. He cupped his chin as he pretended to think, keeping his hard stare on Jaime. It was as he thought and feared. How to harness his son to his duty, without provoking him into running away from his responsibilities?

“And now?” he asked, allowing just a bit of a hard edge to creep into his voice. He’d played the concerned father. Now it was time to show a glimpse of the lord.

He saw Jaime hesitate. “I don’t know,” he finally responded, his shoulders slumping. “I still want to be my own man. But I have responsibilities to the family, to my men.”

I can work with this, Tywin thought, relieved. He’s a spooked horse. Move slowly and patiently. Talk softly. A firm but gentle hand. He’ll submit.

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing toward a seat. He poured his heir a goblet of wine, before fixing him with a look of disappointed but fond exasperation. He had not had occasion to use this particular expression in many years. 

Not since Gerion vanished, he remembered. What a waste. He pushed the memory of his youngest brother away. Nostalgia served no purpose.

“I will do you the courtesy of treating you as your own man,” he said scornfully. “If you remember your duties to your house.” Acknowledge his freedom while yoking him to responsibility, he thought slyly. “I expect certain things from you. I will not restrict you otherwise. I will speak with you honestly. You will do me the same courtesy.”

Jaime looked at him skeptically. “And what do you want from me? What do I get in return?”

Tywin let a small amount of disapproval show. Nothing too fierce, he reminded himself. “I want you as my heir. I want you wed, with children. I want our line secure. I want you at my side daily when I hold court, administer justice, see to our people, confer with my advisors. I want you to learn what it means to be Lord Lannister.”

“Is that all?” Jaime said mockingly. “It sounds to me that you want to tie me down.”

Of course I do, Tywin thought irritably, carefully to keep it off his face. “No,” he said instead. “If you do your duty, I will not tell you how to go about it.” Time for a bit of carrot. “I want you wed. I have not commanded you, I have not selected a bride. I’ve left that to you.” But only because if I had, you would have refused, he acknowledged silently to himself.

“How generous of you,” his son replied dryly. “I fail to see the urgency in my marital prospects. You have Tyrion. You have a fairly significant collection of nephews. There is no shortage of Lannister heirs.”

Tywin made no effort to suppress the look of anger that crossed his face at the thought of Tyrion, the cursed Imp, inheriting the Rock. “Tyrion will never inherit,” he growled forcefully. He paused a moment to master himself. “Kevan would do well, but his sons are not suitable. Tyrek is too young to properly consider.” Of all his nephews, Tywin held the most hope for Tyrek, the son of his deceased brother Tygett. 

In many ways, Jaime reminded him of Tygett. If Tyrek was anything like Tygett, and if he could bend himself to his duty, he’d do the house proud. Much like Jaime, Tywin thought wryly.

“You are being foolish, father,” Jaime said with disappointment. “Tyrion is the best of us.”

Tywin slammed his hand down so hard, the contents of the table bounced. “He killed your mother!” 

To Tywin’s dismay he was breathing heavily. Jaime’s constant defense of Tyrion never ceased to aggravate him.

“He killed no one,” Jaime responded evenly. “If you must blame someone, blame the gods. They might actually deserve your wrath.”

It took a moment for Tywin to collect himself. “Tyrion will not inherit,” he repeated firmly. “He is not suited.” He disciplined his face back to its proper impassivity, though he couldn’t prevent some of his anger seeping through.

His son was not deterred. “Really? I thought he was working miracles at Castamere? The Good Wizard Tyrion, I’m hearing him called.”

Tywin snorted. “It seems you’ve heard the same reports. They are overblown. He rebuilt the walls and towers in brick.” He didn’t bother to keep the scorn out of his voice. “Brick will not withstand a determined siege.” He forced himself to remain calm. He reminded himself that his purpose was not to alienate his son. “He did the work quickly and cheaply. His work getting Castamere drained was exceptional,” he acknowledged. “It will even withstand raiders and bandits. He did use cut stone for the gatehouses. But it is still not a proper fortification.”

When Tywin first heard of the speed in which Tyrion was completing the work, he’d scoffed. Then he’d considered the work he’d done with the sewers and drains. Tyrion did have a reputation for cleverness and efficiency. So he’d sent men to check. 

They’d reported that his cursed child had built a brickyard, with large kilns built into the side of a hill. Castamere had been rebuilt in brick, as had its buildings and even the surrounding farmhouses. There were even the beginnings of brick roads being constructed. 

It was just like his monster of a son, Tywin thought. Build better than they deserved homes for the smallfolk at the expense of suitable fortifications. 

But if the obscene dwarf wanted Stark’s brat behind brick walls, who was Tywin to tell him no? Lord Stark had made his deal to rebuild Castamere with Tyrion. He’d provided more than sufficient funds, far more than needed for the construction, none of which had been returned despite the work allegedly being completed. He’d provided skilled labor; stone masons, smiths, carpenters, miners and others. He’d provided armed men to secure the camps. He’d honored the agreement. It wasn’t his responsibility if Stark’s chosen agent delivered inferior goods. 

Tywin’s only real concern was Joy. She was his blood and he did not want her behind weak walls. He comforted himself that there was plenty of time to sort out the Stark boy once she’d given him an heir or two.

Tywin was grateful to see Jaime fall silent, though he knew better than to read too much into it. His eldest trusted in Tyrion far too much. But Jaime couldn’t argue with him as he hadn’t seen Castamere and Tywin’s agents had.

Tywin stopped himself from growing impatient. “Let’s put talk of Tyrion behind us. You’ll see what he’s accomplished,” or not, he mentally added, “soon enough. Will you do your duty?”

Jaime did not speak for a moment, instead staring off into the distance. “I will select my own wife,” he finally said. “I make my own decisions.”

He sounded distressed, to Tywin’s consternation. Was it really such a burden to serve as one of the most powerful lords in all of Westeros? He pushed the thought aside. His children were a constant source of disappointment. 

Even Cersei had failed in her duty, having provided Stannis with only one daughter. Dragonstone was not the richest holding, but it was strategically important. Without a male heir, the Crown could grant it to another. Even the modest gains realized due to Cersei’s marriage to Stannis could be lost in an instant. 

He ground his teeth at Robert’s betrayal. He’d gained him the city. He’d removed obstacles to his reign. And his reward was to be cast aside, his daughter married to a younger brother who himself had been cast aside. 

Patience, he reminded himself again. An opportunity will arise. There will be a reckoning.

He missed Joanna. She’d been able to navigate the ingratitude of their children far better than he.

Instead of snapping at his son, he contented himself with responding, “Tyrion already made that request on your behalf. I granted it, so long as you selected a bride from an appropriate family within a reasonable period of time. It’s been three years. You’ve traveled to five of the Seven Kingdoms. You’ve seen all the ladies the realm has on offer. I’ve been patient. I’ve fulfilled my end. When will you?”

“Five of the Seven Kingdoms is not all of them. I’ll decide after I’ve spent time in the Stormlands and the Reach.” He smirked. “I won’t be able to do that if I’m tied to your apron strings.”

Tywin slowly drew his breath in and reminded himself not to lose his temper. Jaime was a man grown but acted like an impudent and willful child. “Fine,” he said levelly, keeping his tone measured despite his inclination. “You will remain at the Rock for the next year, remembering what it means to be lord, reminding yourself of your duty. Then you can visit the Reach and the Stormlands. If two years from today you are not married, then I select your bride and you will marry without question. Agreed?”

It looked for a moment as if his fool of a son would object, then he nodded curtly. “Agreed,” he confirmed quietly. 

Tywin would have preferred to have Genna select a lady for him today, with a ceremony in the morning. While strong alliances outside the Westerlands were desirable, he needed healthy grandsons more than he needed gold or swords. But if he tried to force the point, Jaime would doubtless vanish in the middle of the night only to reappear in Essos or some other equally distant location. Better to give a little more rope, before fitting him for a saddle.

Jaime was a Lannister. He’d pay his debts. Eventually.

“Tell me about Stark’s boy?” Tywin said, moving to less important topics now that he was sure his son wouldn’t vanish in the middle of the night. Then he made a note to have him watched, just to be sure. 

Jaime visibly brightened. “He’s a good lad. He’s tremendously talented. Stark was a fool to cast him aside. He’ll make a loyal lord and a good husband for Joy, I have no doubt.” His visage darkened. “When will you be knighting him?”

Tywin kept the smile off of his face. He knew Jaime had wanted to knight Jon a year ago after his victory in the squire’s melee in Gulltown. He’d forbidden it.

It had been a test for his son, to see whether he had the sense to understand the consequences associated with defying him. Jaime may have a vague sense that Tywin wouldn’t harm him, which is true of any of his blood, but that did not apply to others. If he’d knighted Jon in defiance of his orders, he would have acted. The boy didn’t need his legs or sight to father children, after all.

Thankfully, Jaime wasn’t as stupid or as rebellious as he’d feared. He’d acceded to his father’s order.

“Tonight he consummates his marriage to Joy. Tomorrow he stands vigil. The day after we’ll feast him and his wife, knight him, and take his oath of fealty. The following morning Tyrion will escort them to Castamere. You will not be going with them,” he said, closely watching his son. Would he bend to his authority?

Jaime looked disappointed but nodded in agreement. Tywin smiled.

“Come,” he beckoned as he stood.

Jaime followed him as he left the solar. The inner core of the Rock was a vast complex. It would be a fair statement that the Lannister home contained several fortresses, all self-contained, within the massive edifice known as Casterly Rock. But certain areas could be accessed by all of them.

One of those areas was the main armory, which stood adjacent to the central smithy. There were other, more modest armories scattered throughout the fortress. There were other smithies, their forges were lit during the day as they made small repairs to the arms and armor of their individual divisions. But the central armory and smithy was by far the largest of them all. 

The Street of Steel in King’s Landing would almost fit in the large cavern where the majority of Lannisters arms and armor were manufactured. From here, the thousands of household troops that he could personally call upon were equipped, forming the best armed and armored force in Westeros. From here, steel was shaped and shipped all over the Westerlands in response to the requests of Lannister bannermen. 

A percentage was even sold elsewhere, just enough to pay for the iron, charcoal and wages of the men who operated the Lannister armsworks. The Lannisters may possess many gold mines scattered about the Westerlands, with the principal mine being the Rock itself, but Tywin Lannister was determined that operations would be self-sufficient as possible. There was no need to needlessly squander gold.

Tywin led his son to a brightly lit forge. A large man, sweat trickling down his brow, was working a piece of steel. “Mylus,” he called out, his tone respectful. Tywin respected competency. In his chosen field, Mylus was a master.

The burly man looked up and blinked. He wasted no time in quenching the metal under his hammer. He bowed to Tywin. “My lord,” he said, his voice harsh and rasping.

“The Stark boy’s armor. Where is it?” He asked. “My son wants to inspect it.”

Mylus frowned. “I assure you, lord, it is as fine as craftsmanship as you’ll see outside the capitol.” 

Mylus was prickly. While he had a reputation as being a mastersmith, rivaling Tobho Mott of King’s Landing, he disliked any hint that his work might be inferior or in need of inspection. He took particular offense to the persistent rumor that Tobho Mott was the only armorer in Westeros who could add tint to steel.

Jaime cut in. “I merely want to see it to satisfy my curiosity, Master Mylus. No insult is intended.”

Tywin knew that Jaime was attempting to stay on Mylus’ good side. He was the smith that sometimes gilded and others tinted his son’s armor. Based on his appearance, his armor was in desperate need of repair or replacement. 

Tywin, on the other hand, was in no hurry for Jaime’s armor to be restored. The longer the work took, the longer he’d likely remain at the Rock. 

“Aye,” Tywin agreed. Then he twisted the knife. “He just wants to ensure it’s up to your usual standards. He’s close to his squire and only wants the best.”

Tywin saw Jaime roll his eyes out of the corner of his eye. He obviously knew what his intentions were, though that hardly mattered as far as he was concerned. Who mattered was Mylus. The smith frowned at him, and then his son, before putting down his hammer with a scowl.

He led them deeper into the armory. Rows upon rows of armor stood upon stands. Most were painted red, so that Lannister soldiers would better identify each other on the battlefield. Others, a very few, were tinted through a process that smiths like Mylus and Mott held as a closely guarded secret. 

Mylus removed a cloth which was covering an armor stand. There stood a complete set of plate armor, tinted red. No design or embellishment adorned the suit. A shield was displayed. It bore a golden Lannister Lion on a red field with patches depicting a small white wolfshead and a stylized hill in the top left and right corners. A long sword and an axe with a back spike leaned against the shield.

“As you requested,” Mylus grumbled, picking up the sheathed sword and handing it to Tywin. 

He grasped the simple black leather wrapped hilt and half pulled the blade free. The sword, like the armor and axe, was tinted red. The edge glinted sharply. He pushed it back in its sheath, before handing it to his son.

Jaime was focused on battle and all its associated arts. Whether sword, lance, riding, or armor, he’d give anything associated with war his undivided attention. He’d always been disinterested in talk of crops, trade or justice. Now, however, he poured his entire focus into the weapons and armor before him.

Tywin did not suppress his smile as Mylus’ scowl deepened. The master smith was an artist. Like any artist he was sensitive to any hint that his work was less than perfect. Jaime would not be welcome in the forges for a short while.

“This is excellent steel and craftsmanship, Master Mylus,” Jaime said, finally standing. His eyes were glued to the set, gleaming appreciatively.

“Your approval of my work means a lot,” the smith responded, his tone suggesting he was being less than sincere.

Jaime hummed as he ran his hand over a scarlet pauldron. “Master Mylus,” he said oblivious to the glare being directed at him, “my squire is being knighted soon and taking up the lordship of Castamere. The men I’ve been traveling with will be swearing their oaths to him. They’ll need to have their equipment seen too. Will you be able to accomplish that within the next three days?”

Mylus’ face had been darkening as his son spoke. Tywin interrupted before his heir found himself on the wrong end of the master smith’s tongue. Though he was a great craftsman, and he was due every courtesy, he would not be able to overlook a direct insult to his son and heir.

Besides, he thought it might be desirable if Jaime’s men were in Castamere, not wandering unmonitored in the Rock.

“Master Mylus will be glad to arm and armor your men. Send them to him in the morning,” Tywin said with a warning look to the smith. He must have understood as he nodded before turning away and returning to his forge.

His son stood next to him, taller than him. Tywin felt a flash of pride.

“Thank you, father,” Jaime said simply.

Tywin placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome, son.”

SJ SJ SJ

AN: Tywin can be forgiven in mistaking what Tyrion has accomplished. Tyrion built Castamere largely of brick faced concrete, which is why he claims Tyrion built the walls of brick. Brick cannot withstand a trebuchet. Tywin, and Westeros, is unfamiliar with Roman concrete, which forms the inner core of Castamere’s walls and towers.

When Tyrion was reading those ancient books and scrolls in Castle Black that he thought maesters would give their weight in gold to read, he was reading and learning about the tech of the Valyrian Freehold and The Empire of Old Ghis. According to awoiaf [dot] westeros [dot] org, “It is often said that the old wizards of Valyria did not cut and chisel stone, but worked it with fire and magic as a potter might work clay, although much of their knowledge is now lost. Valyrians had a powerful magic which could liquefy stone and shape it how they wanted.” 

I’m interpreting that to mean that they knew concrete, like the ancient Romans. 

Also, per the same source, Old Ghis had walls built of brick and used legionnaires, like ancient Rome. So I’m going with the theory that Old Ghis knew how to mass produce fire hardened bricks, like the Romans. 

The Romans used both concrete and brick when building fortifications. They used brick facing, both for looks and to reinforce the shape when the concrete was being poured into the reusable wooden frames.

Large castles could take much longer than many years (a decade or longer) to build using cut stone and were extremely expensive. By contrast, the Romans could build things like the Aurelian Walls in five years, using volunteer labor as the legionnaires were unavailable as things were in desperate straits on the frontier at the time. The Walls “. . . full circuit ran for 19 km (12 mi) surrounding an area of 13.7 km2 (5.3 sq mi). The walls were constructed in brick-faced concrete, 3.5 m (11 ft) thick and 8 m (26 ft) high, with a square tower every 100 Roman feet (29.6 m (97 ft)).” 

The Walls were a significant defensive structure until 1870 when breached by developing modern artillery. They are still present today. The pictures on Wikipedia are impressive.

I acknowledge that two latter emperors improved the Walls by adding stone gatehouses and raising the height. Tyrion used much of the cut stone from the old curtain wall to build the gatehouses, thereby resolving that shortcoming.

Castamere does not compare to the size of Ancient Rome. Tyrion only built a fortress and walls to accommodate a (some day) town, not city.

Tyrion’s construction techniques is one reason why Joy hears the servants calling him a wizard. Add knowledge of an Archimedean screw, water wheels, and a few other things, and Tyrion rebuilt, expanded and improved Castamere in a fraction of the time and cost of more traditional medieval methods. Hence, he’s a wizard, raising walls and towers overnight, according to the smallfolk. 

The good news is the smallfolk of Castamere consider him their good wizard. The bad news is that Tywin considers him a fraud, working in substandard materials.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter takes place a couple of months after chapter 12. I think it’s fitting that chapter 13 is Littlefinger’s POV. I’m using him to describe the overall situation in the Seven Kingdoms on the eve of war (though he doesn’t know war is imminent).

AN: There are a lot of posts concerned about Jon’s disfigurement. Please keep in mind that Joy is not a reliable narrator. She is a very traumatized young lady. She’s a young woman who was told and convinced that her husband was an Adonis. When she was afraid and distrusting, she mentally exaggerated his wounds to make him an ogre. When she was in love (and she is, or at least her hormones are), she mentally exaggerates his wounds out of concern. But when she focuses on his individual physical traits, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, she thinks they’re all beautiful. Later, when he’s asleep, she realizes he is beautiful, despite his ruined visage.

Joy is not objective. Joy does not even consider herself attractive because she has a few freckles and her hair isn’t Lannister gold, though men would be panting after her but for Genna’s protection and fear of her aunt’s vengeance.

Sansa’s reaction is the same as Joy’s, she’s distressed because the brother whom she loves and adores (and has a subconscious attraction to, thanks to Ghost and Lady) is scarred. She is not repulsed by the scars, however, any more than Joy is.

I also think my Jon’s wounds are similar to Jon’s in canon. GRRM has an eagle mutilate the skin around Jon’s eye, cheek and forehead. I think he takes a sword cut to the face later on. His arm and hand are significantly burned, scarred, and somewhat maimed, requiring constant therapy. HBO just made his wounds look stylish, which is easy when Kit Harrington is your protagonist. We also don’t get a girlfriend’s or sister’s commentary, except maybe for Ygritte who would consider the scars turn-ons.

SJ SJ SJ

Petyr Baelish shook his head in amazement as he tallied the King’s expenditures for this month alone. It was shocking. And as Master of Coin he was expected to find the gold to honor the debts while keeping the kingdom solvent. He despaired.

After seventeen years of rule, or rather misrule, he amended, King Robert had plunged the Crown into almost a million and a half dragons into debt. This after inheriting a full treasury from Aerys! 

He more than half suspected the common people would prefer return to the rule of Mad King Aerys. Yes, he may have burned a few people alive every month. But what was a few dozen horrific murders a year compared to the crushing taxes imposed on the smallfolk, driving them into poverty and near starvation? For the common man struggling to feed a family, letting the King send a few nobles to the pyre every so often was a more than fair exchange if he could provide his family an extra meal or two.

Petyr was on the verge of throwing up his hands in frustration. It would be so much easier to just borrow the kingdom into oblivion, perhaps lining his pockets along the way. But no, he was fated to toil his days away in what seemed an almost futile effort to preserve the kingdom and the Crown’s finances.

I do this for my children, he reminded himself. For about the hundredth time this month alone, he reaffirmed his resolve. I will keep the Crown intact and strong for my children. Even as he thought it, he knew that was only partially true. For all of his faults, he prided himself on his self-awareness.

Petyr would be the first to admit he was a very selfish man. He knew his plotting and scheming was designed with one objective in mind, his personal advancement. 

Never again would he find himself at the mercy of mail clad thugs, like Brandon Stark. Never again would a father cast him aside for a better marriage. Never again would his lady refuse his favor.

He admitted to himself that Lysa Tully’s marriage to Robert Baratheon had been a gift from the gods. When Hoster Tully had cast him out for the offense of loving his daughter, Catelyn, too much, he’d returned to the Fingers. He admitted he’d struggled. His ancestral holdings were poor and impoverished. Even a man of his considerable intelligence, creativity and drive, had trouble with improving the value of those barren, sea swept rocks.

Then Lysa, sweet Lysa, bore Robert a son, Joffrey. The King in his elation could refuse her nothing. And what she wanted most in the world was to help her childhood friend, poor impoverished Petyr. 

On her recommendation, Robert gave him the control of the customs of King’s Landing. The appointment caused great offense, but Robert cared nothing for offending mortal men, with the possible exceptions of Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. And the naysayers were soon silenced as Petyr soon justified Robert’s faith, multiplying the Crown’s customs revenue several fold, to the delight of the King’s Hand, Jon Arryn.

Of course, a portion of that increased revenue found itself into Petyr’s pocket. While revenues actually increased five times over, the King’s Hand had no reason to question his work or integrity when four times last year's revenue was delivered to the treasury.

Petyr’s fortunes only continued to improve. A few years later, the then Master of Coin was found dead, a victim of suicide. A note found on the scene confessed his many embezzlements and how he could no longer endure the shame of his crimes against the Crown.

Petyr thought it one of his better ploys as it resulted in his promotion to Master of Coin, supported by both the King’s Hand and the good graces of his Queen. He had merely hoped to be promoted to the King’s Counter, the official in charge of tax collection throughout Westeros. Instead, he found himself promoted higher than he’d anticipated. It only went to prove, he thought, that it was not what one knew but whom one knew.

Though Queen Lysa had almost wrecked her relationship with the King due to her obsessive mothering of Joffrey. Fortunately, wiser heads intervened before the King took particular note. Joffrey was assigned wet nurses and staff to see to his needs. Lysa was left to her own devices and was kept well away from the heir, which Petyr very much approved of as it would be counterproductive if some of her more extreme eccentricities came to light.

Regardless, Petyr again justified the King’s faith as Master of Coin. Under his tenure as Master of Coin, revenue increased much as it had under his management of the city’s customs. 

As did his personal wealth, by the same ratio. One part in five of the increase was hidden away in Braavos and other boltholes he’d prepared in case of emergency.

By the time he was thirty, he was rich beyond the comprehension of most men. Such was his wealth, the Braavosi had even appointed him as a magister for their city. Amazingly, the King and his Hand had approved the appointment, reasoning it would make dealing with the Iron Bank easier.

Of course Lysa complicated things. Sweet, mad Lysa. He admitted he’d intended his many embezzlements. He’d not, however, intended his treason. Becoming intimately involved with the Queen would be a disaster.

Besides, he’d only truly loved one woman, Catelyn Tully, his Cat. His intentions had been limited to increasing his wealth, wait for a suitable opportunity to make her a widow, and then make a claim for her hand. 

He knew she loved him also. It was impossible she could not return his feelings, which were so pure and passionate. It was the only true and unselfish thing about him, he admitted to himself, his love for Cat. Their love had endured since childhood and even today burned just as bright. And he knew, deep in his heart, that only her duty to her father and family caused her to forsake him.

But Lysa had been insistent. He’d tried to put her off with kind, flowery words, sympathetic gazes, and the occasional very public meeting to discuss Crown finances, but it was not enough for her. One night when he was deep in his cups, she’d managed to slip into his room. He’d weakened, mostly as she shared so many physical traits with Catelyn. In the firelight, he could at least pretend. 

The next morning, when sobriety returned, was when he felt the terror. He hated it, hating the feeling of helplessness. It was not a feeling he’d had to endure since his duel against Brandon Stark. Just as importantly, he hated the stupidity, the stupidity of the Queen and his stupidity for allowing himself to be seduced. 

The Queen was always watched, always guarded. There were no secrets in the Red Keep. If they had been discovered, it would have been the death of them. 

Or at least him, he acknowledged cynically. She might have survived, her only punishment to be sent to the Silent Sisters. The Queen was the daughter of Hoster Tully, the good sister to Lord Stark, and the mother of Prince Joffrey, who was his father in miniature. The King would hesitate to do anything which would cause a rupture with his favorite son. No, Lysa would survive.

For Joffrey was a model prince, at least as Robert Baratheon reckoned these things. He loved the practice and tilt yard, hunting, falconry and, when he entered his teen years, wine and women. The King had laughed uproariously when he discovered that his heir had fathered a bastard at age thirteen, three years sooner than the King himself.

Petyr, on the other hand, barely qualified as noble. His head would have been on the chopping block in an instant. Likely, after a prolonged visit with the torturers of the Black Cells. Given how he despised pain, he’d likely confess his every crime within hours.

That could not be endured. Simply out of a sense of self-preservation, he posted guards loyal to him at his door. He increased rounds in the corridors leading to his chambers. Anything to make it impossible for Lysa to breach his security again, and tempt him into another potentially fatal tryst.

It wasn’t even as if she were a particularly good lover, he’d mused. He should know. He owned many brothels scattered about King’s Landing, and the other cities and towns to Westeros, and made it a point to personally train the more talented of the girls. 

He was careful to keep his ownership concealed behind many layers of cutouts, as he knew if it came to light it would wreck his chances with Cat. But his ownership served the dual purpose of further increasing his wealth while at the same time making him a better future lover for the only woman who really mattered. 

He did it all for Cat. He knew he’d drive every thought of Brandon and Eddard Stark from her mind and heart, if only given a chance.

Then he discovered, again, that the gods were kind and cruel in equal measure. He’d succeeded in keeping Lysa at arms length. But it didn’t matter. She was pregnant.

Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon were born twins. It was a difficult birthing, one that almost cost the Queen her life. She’d never have another child, Maester Pycelle reported solemnly.

King Robert had been overjoyed. He now had his heir and his spare, with a daughter he could use to secure a valuable alliance. His queen’s near death only slightly troubled him. Any unease he may have felt he resolved by showering her with a large number of very expensive jewels. Petyr knew with exactitude how much that generosity had cost the Crown. 

By contrast, Petyr had done the math and had been terrified, again, to his great personal frustration. He suspected it was possible he was the father of Myrcella and Tommen. Unlike Joffrey, who was a near perfect copy of his father, Tommen and Myrcella were short, slender, possessed sharp features and pale blue eyes.

Fortunately, their stature, which was so like Petyr’s, could be explained by Lysa, who herself had been very petite before her many pregnancies and miscarriages. Likewise, their eye color also came from their mother. Petyr’s hair was as dark as Robert’s, which was sufficient to alleviate any doubts as to paternity. 

Sometimes, early on, Petyr had managed to convince himself there was no risk. That it was possible they were truly Robert’s. But as they aged, it became readily apparent that they both possessed a keen intellect and a razor wit. Something that both Robert and Lysa lacked and which Petyr possessed in abundance.

Lysa certainly had no doubts that he was the father. As she’d later told him after a particularly clammy embrace, Robert had visited her several times in the month before and after her tryst with her childhood friend and lover, but had always passed out drunk before he could manage the deed. Petyr was the only possible father to the Baratheon twins. 

All told, the gods had been kind. If they’d borne too close a resemblance to him, it would have been the end of him. 

Despite his precautions, Jon Arryn had eventually become suspicious of him, thanks to the gossip of an unwise servant. That suspicion necessitated the removal of both the Hand and the servant. 

Thankfully, the Tears of Lys were very fast acting and mimicked a natural death. To prevent a similar recurrence, he’d dramatically increased his spending to plant even more of his people among the common staff of the Red Keep. 

He took particular care to plant his older girls, those who were no longer reliable earners, among Lysa’s household staff and the kitchens. He felt comfortable working with the retired whores. He selected only the best, those whose behaviors he had the easiest time predicting. While he did not delude himself into thinking that they were loyal, no whore was, he was confident enough that they were loyal to his gold. And that was good enough for his purposes.

Once the obvious threats were removed, the birth of his children changed his goals dramatically. He still desired Cat and would someday claim her from Stark. But now he had a different path, a more certain path.

Tommen, his son, was a mere two deaths away from wearing the crown. His son could rule all of Westeros, with some patience and judicious planning on his part.

Almost as importantly, his son would someday require a queen. Arya Stark was reputed to be as beautiful and as willful as Lyanna Stark, the wolf-girl who had won King Robert’s heart. A whispered word in King Robert’s ear, and the King was insisting on a betrothal between Ned Stark’s youngest daughter and his youngest son. Lord Stark was resisting, on account of their young ages, but he’d bend soon, Petyr knew.

Though it took some effort to divert the King’s thoughts from betrothing Joffrey and Arya. Petyr could not have endured it if Cat’s daughter had been betrothed to Robert’s oaf of a son, instead of clever Tommen. Fortunately, the Small Council was in agreement that Margaery Tyrell was a better match for the prince, even if the Tyrells themselves were divided on the subject. 

One faction desired a marriage to Lord Renly, the Lord of Storm’s End, for sentimental reasons while another favored the obviously more advantageous marriage to Prince Joffrey. But the King’s word was law. He’d forbidden the marriage between Renly and Margaery and instead insisted on one between Joffrey and the Tyrell heiress. It helped, Petyr mused, that the King took a childish delight in frustrating his brothers.

Joffrey’s betrothal also temporarily secured the Crown’s interests in the south. The Reach was arguably the most powerful of the Seven Kingdoms. Securing their loyalty was critical, at least in the short term. In the long term, Petyr thought the Florents a far better choice to sit in the Highgarden. 

Olenna Tyrell was far too clever. Her grandchildren Willas and Margaery followed too closely in her footsteps. He did not like clever Lord Paramounts. They were dangerous.

The Florents, by contrast, were not particularly loyal. They, however, possessed pride and stupidity in abundance, which Petyr thought were more valuable traits in bannermen. Loyalty could always be purchased. Stupid, prideful bannermen were easily replaced.

More importantly, arranging matters between Joffrey and Margaery cleared the way to join his son to Cat’s daughter, righting a wrong that should never have occurred. It also gave him an avenue of approach. The day would inevitably arrive that Cat was mourning her husband, as he’d be mourning Lysa once he’d made the appropriate arrangements.

The first step to realizing his goals was to remove Robert. Poison was too obvious, as was a hunting accident. Really, nobles had limited imaginations, Petyr sneered. 

Petyr’s solution was simple. He’d let the King destroy himself. Petyr made sure to keep the King well supplied with whores and wine. He made it a point to search the world over for even more exotic beverages, of ever increasing potency, which he continuously gifted the King in large quantities. 

Robert would drink and whore himself into an early grave, assisted by his most loyal Master of Coin and encouraged by the Queen, who made no secret that her husband’s constant infidelities were no concern of hers. She was zealous in avoiding his embrace, relying on Maester Pycelle’s advice that another pregnancy would kill her. His seeking other outlets for his passion suited both their needs.

Petyr was reasonably sure that Robert would not live to see his fortieth name day. He already had difficulty maneuvering his considerable bulk and became obviously short of breath when he tried. Slowly but surely, the King became less and less active while continuing to indulge the worst of his habits. It was, Petyr piously thought, a resolution which favored everyone, including the King.

When Robert passed, Lysa would be a widow. She would mourn the required time, but then would convince her son to let her remarry. As she was incapable of bearing children, her remarriage would have limited political value. Instead, she would beg to remarry only to ensure she had a companion in her twilight years, such as her childhood friend, Petyr. The sentimental fool that he was, Joffrey would doubtless approve.

Dealing with Joffrey would be much easier than with Robert. He had all of Robert’s faults with none of his experience on the battlefield. Arranging an accident, preferably one perpetuated by Stannis Baratheon or Tywin Lannister, the only two men who caused him concern, would be simplicity itself.

So as Petyr tapped his quill against parchment, he considered his priorities and goals and how to best achieve them. His most pressing concern was safeguarding and preserving the Crown. He had two immediate problems in need of resolution.

First, how to rein in Robert’s ever increasing spending and improve the finances. This was critical if King Tommen was to win the loyalty of the smallfolk by eliminating Robert’s crushing taxation.

Second, how to bind more of the Seven Kingdoms, which were actually ten, if not more by his count, to the throne. The loyalty of the North and Riverlands were absolute. Ties of blood and honor bound them to the Baratheon banners, though he relied more on the blood ties than honor.

He admitted to himself that marrying Tommen and Arya served no real political purpose. It was mere sentiment. They were already presumed cousins by blood. Tommen being married elsewhere, perhaps to a Redwine to further undermine the Tyrells, would better strengthen the throne. But he felt the gods owed him a bit of sentimentality and he, like Robert, would not be deterred.

Like the North, the Riverlands were bound to the throne by blood. Hoster Tully was the grandfather of all three Baratheon children and his heir, Edmure, was their uncle. If ever Lysa’s children were threatened, they’d answer the call.

The Iron Kingdoms were effectively neutered with Theon being held as hostage in King’s Landing. The boy was a fool, like Robert, Joffrey, and Jasper Arryn. Petyr had inserted Theon into their circle and, like them, he was careful to encourage his worst habits. When he returned to take up his father’s seat, he’d be prideful and stupid, and thus easily controlled.

By contrast, the Westerlands and Dorne were best kept at arm's length until the situation with the Vale and the Reach was resolved. Prince Doran and Lord Lannister were far too cunning and ruthless to be let anywhere near the Iron Throne. Petyr was certain that it would take the combined power of all the other kingdoms to bring them to heel. But they would be made to submit. All it required was some patience.

The Stormlands, like Dragonstone, were nominally secure. But Robert’s relationship with his brothers were too tumultuous to rely on their loyalty, despite their shared blood. Especially unyielding and inflexible Stannis. But Stannis was weak. At best he could muster five thousand men. He did control the Royal Fleet, but Petyr had been steadily removing his chosen captains for offenses, real and imagined, and replacing them with his men. Stannis could be safely disregarded, for now.

As to the King’s youngest brother, Renly was infatuated with Loras Tyrell. Loras was encouraging a marriage between his sister, Margaery, and Renly to provide cover for their illicit relationship. The betrothal of Joffrey to Margaery was offensive to both.

Fortunately, Loras and Renly were both prideful and stupid. They could be brought around. If not, they could be encouraged to make a mistake which would allow him to remove Renly as Lord of the Stormlands and replace the Tyrells with the Florents. Provided, of course, he could better arrange matters in the Vale.

While he was relatively certain of his relationships, or lack of them, with the other great lords, the Vale caused him the most doubt. Jasper Arryn was the current lord. He was personally loyal to the King, having squired for him and having been knighted by him. He was fast friends with Prince Joffrey. All three were birds of a feather in their personal behaviors. But these were ties of mere sentiment. The pending marriage between Sansa Stark to Jasper Arryn would tie the Vale more closely to the North than the throne.

Normally, this would not concern Petyr. If he had to trust someone’s honor, he’d prefer to trust a Stark’s. But he’d carefully crafted Jasper into an easily manipulated fool. He’d much prefer the power and wealth of the Vale be controlled by his daughter, Myrcella, and hence him, than the Starks.

Petyr looked at his calculations of the Crown expenses tabulated by month for the last four years. He thought for a moment. It really was obvious. His two most immediate problems had the same solution, Eddard Stark.

Normally, Petyr sneered at concepts such as honor and duty, despite maintaining a careful facade paying tribute to both. His disdain for those concepts was rooted in his firm belief that the majority of those who professed such sentiments were liars and schemers. They used the words as a cloak to cover their self-interest, the dirty deals and the coarse betrayals, they’d regularly engaged in to advance their interests.

He’d learned that lesson well. Hoster Tully was a man more interested in power and influence than he was his House’s words, Family, Duty, Honor. One of Petyr’s great regrets was that the gods were calling Lord Tully to them well before he could make more personal arrangements.

He’d killed Petyr’s child. When Lysa told him that he’d raged internally, thinking of the loss, the waste, if the child had been anything like the gifted Tommen or Myrcella, though he kept his true emotion of his face. He’d comforted Lysa, as she expected, and contented himself with dreaming of putting a knife between her father’s ribs. If the old man were to hold on a year or two longer, he might be in a position to do just that.

Stark was another thing entirely. The Northern Lord embodied House Tully’s words more fully than its own lord. Stark was an admirable man, Petyr admitted despite his inclination otherwise. He was a good lord and a valuable ally in managing the kingdom and reining in Robert’s excesses. 

So far as he was aware, Stark had only sold his influence once and that was to secure a rich holding for his natural son. Though Petyr resented the half million golden dragons that the treasury had lost, which was the current offer then on the table to release Jaime Lannister from his oaths, he respected the fact that Stark did it for his family. He hadn’t repeated such blatant self-dealing, so Petyr thought the half million was a small price to pay for a competent and reliable Hand. In the final analysis, the amount was trivial compared to the sums Petyr had diverted to his own, more selfish, purposes.

It could even be reasonably argued that Ned Stark’s unceasing efforts to restrain Robert’s excesses had paid for that one indulgence many times over. He would almost regret killing Stark someday, but it was necessary to win Cat.

He gathered his papers and left his office. His two primary bodyguards, Ser Bronn and Ser Shadrich, were standing there. Both were exceptional killers. Both were the best type of sellsword; they’d give you the opportunity to outbid any competition before sticking a knife in your back. He respected men with that sort of integrity.

They were exactly the sort of men he needed protecting him in the Red Keep; men who could defy a Kingsguard and possibly live. He had several in his employ, but needed more, in his estimation.

“I need to visit Lord Stark,” he said softly, masking his face in a smile. “We need to review financial reports.”

Everything he said was true. None of it was the business of the men posing as his sworn swords. They would move when he said move and not ask where or why. But Petyr had learned early on that the walls in the Red Keep had ears. He very much enjoyed sharing his movements, and his version of why he was moving, with any surreptitious listeners. 

After all, if he made them work for the information, they might actually discover the occasional truth better left hidden.

Bronn and Shadrich nodded, the smaller man leading the way while the larger covered his back. As they walked, Petyr considered the security situation within the Red Keep. Or more correctly, his security and, by extension, that of his children.

Stark had a hundred men within the keep. His men were extremely loyal. They rarely caused trouble. It was only with great difficulty that Petyr suborned two of them to report on their lord’s movements. Despite himself, the loyalty Stark inspired in his men impressed Petyr. They would remain loyal to Stark, and by extension Robert, regardless of the odds.

House Tully had a similar number, as did House Baratheon. These men were only nominally loyal to their lords. Petyr had corrupted a significant number in each camp. They performed admirably, keeping him informed of their lords’ individual movements. He was also fairly sure that a good number could be induced to turn their swords on their companions, if ordered to take action against the Master of Coin. 

Even if they didn’t, he was fairly confident there were those among their number who would assist him in escaping the Black Cells if he ever had the misfortune to occupy one. He had a reputation of being generous to his friends, one that he’d carefully cultivated with King Robert’s misappropriated coin.

The King also had his seven Kingsguard, which so far had been immune to Petyr’s efforts to infiltrate. Ser Barristan had an eye for talent and Robert allowed him free rein, unfortunately. But seven was nowhere near the numbers he could bring to bear. Even the greatest of swordsmen would fall if enough swords were thrown his way.

And for that he owned the Gold Cloaks, despite their nominal leader being the King’s brother Renly, serving as Master of Laws. But the city watch was a poor shield regardless of their numbers. He’d done his best to clean them up. He’d ensured that once a business or citizen paid protection money that they received actual protection. He’d offered better incentives to improve the quality of recruit. He’d even provided them with competent leadership in the form of Ser Lyn Corbray. But at the end of the day they were still just thugs with cudgels. Even years after sending Janos Slynt to the Wall, the situation had only somewhat improved.

Still, some improvement was better than no improvement. Even that modest improvement had been enough to convince Robert that the gold cloaks were sufficient security for the Queen and the two younger Baratheon children. The other supposedly loyal men were necessary to protect Robert and Joffrey, in addition to obeying the occasional command to go here, there or do that. 

It wouldn't be prudent he’d suggested to the King to run them ragged when there were loyal men in cloaks of gold that could shoulder some of their burden. After all, what skill did it take to watch the occasional door or provide an occasional escort?

Really, Jaime Lannister vanishing for almost a year due to some inane interpretation of the King’s orders had been a blessing. It created an opportunity for Petyr to insert some of his more reliable men in the City Watch into the Red Keep. They were invaluable for silencing any wagging tongues, while at the same time ensuring his children had the best protection money could buy. Next to himself, of course.

It also helped that Corbray was an excellent catspaw. As long as Petyr kept supplying him with gold and boys, and kept secret his proclivities regarding the latter, he was absolutely loyal. He was so loyal, or at least sufficiently fearful of being outed as a pederast, that Petyr could confidently command him to join every conspiracy against him, just to ensure that he stayed abreast of things. It wouldn’t do to miss the knife threatening his back.

Corbray was especially effective at keeping him informed as to Renly’s plots against him. As Master of Laws, Renly was Corbray’s direct superior. The youngest Baratheon brother was a foolish young noble. Like most of his ilk, he thought superior social status and a sworn oath was sufficient to ensure his subordinates loyalty. 

Corbray was Renly’s dearest friend when it came to representing his interests in King’s Landing, about which Petyr was careful not to disabuse him. Just last week, Petyr had staged a very public quarrel with Corbray over the shortfall in taxes received from one of Renly’s supporters. After Corbray’s loud and insulting intervention, Petyr had allowed the cheat to escape his net, all to ensure Renly’s continued faith in the gold cloak Commander.

His ruminations came to an end when he arrived at Stark’s door. It was guarded by a pair of Stark men armored in grey and white. Neither were in his employ, to Petyr’s great regret.

“Can you good Sers see if Lord Stark has time for me at the moment? I have urgent business to discuss.” Petyr smiled graciously at the two men as he spoke. 

Courtesy cost nothing, he’d long ago discovered. If nothing else, it made one more approachable. Some of those who might decide to approach him would be malcontents. Subverting a man’s loyalty took time and effort, and the first step was keeping an open door. Unfortunately, some men took longer than others, such as Stark men.

One of the two vanished into the Hand’s rooms and reappeared a moment later. “Lord Stark will see you,” he said gruffly, a thick Northern accent rendering his words almost unintelligible. 

Petyr nodded his head in thanks as he entered the Hand’s apartments. He was pleased to see that Stark was surrounded by papers stacked as high as any in his office. It was good to see the Hand so attentive to his duties. Petyr would hate to shoulder those burdens, in addition to his own. 

Though he would, if need be. Anything to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted with a smile.

Stark looked exhausted. Petyr could see that his once uniformly dark hair was showing some grey. He sympathized. Serving on the King’s Small Council was a thankless task, especially with an irresponsible monarch like Robert. 

Still, Stark’s excessive loyalty was responsible for his sad circumstances, Petyr thought. A more sensible man would have tipped half the treasury into his own pockets and returned to the comforts of home. Petyr knew he would have, if Cat had been waiting at home for him.

It also pleased him to have Stark far away from Winterfell. If he was here, he couldn’t enjoy Cat’s company. The mere thought made his skin crawl. Yes, it was best that Stark stay on as King’s Hand for as long as possible. It was his duty.

“Lord Baelish,” he replied wearily. “How can I be of service?”

Petyr placed the reports stacked chronologically on his desk. He made three stacks. One stack covered the year before Robert left for Winterfell, another the six months of expenditures he made while on the road to and from Winterfell, and another of the three years since.

He pointed at the first and last of the three stacks. “The monthly average is written on the top parchment. It reflects the King’s average expenditure monthly while he’s in the capital.” He then pointed to the middle stack. “The King’s average monthly expenditures while on the road.”

Stark looked at the three numbers. His eyebrows rose. “He spends much more in the capital,” he observed.

“By a multiple of nearly ten,” Petyr softly agreed. “If the King were constantly on the road, we could retire three hundred thousand or more gold dragons a year in debt while still supporting his lifestyle. If he stays in the capital, at his current spending rate, we’ll add another half million to the debt by year end, and each year after that.”

Stark blanched. “Surely he can be reasoned with?”

Petyr spread his arms open in invitation. “I hope you try, Lord Stark. But neither myself, nor his wife, nor his brothers, nor any other member of the Council have been successful. I wish you better fortune.” 

Petyr knew from his informants that Stark had outright quarreled with the King about his spending on more than one occasion. Robert would even often mend his ways for a day or two, but would then invariably resume his old habits. Any promise he may have made to restrain himself, forgotten. Petyr knew that Stark would fail again, as he so often had in the past, though he applauded his many efforts.

Stark looked defeated. “Robert tries, but he is . . .”. His voice faded as he searched for an excuse to defend his friend, before giving up with a sigh of frustration.

Petyr put on his sympathetic look. He’d had a lot of practice with it when listening to Lysa. 

“I know the King tries, Lord Stark,” he said for the benefit of any listeners. No treasonous words would ever cross his lips, especially while in the company of the Lord of the North. “He is a man of grand passions. But the solution sits on the very table before us,” he opined, pointing at the middle stack.

Stark frowned. “And what is that, Lord Baelish?”

Petyr suppressed a sigh. He really couldn’t blame Stark. The weather in the North was so cold it doubtless froze his thoughts to a crawl. How he wished he was there to warm his Cat.

“The King needs to go on a procession. Let him travel the realm for a year or two. Let his loyal lords host him, put on tournaments at their expense, wine him, dine him, take him on hunts, pay for his entertainment. If he takes Joffrey with him, not only might we cut the debt significantly, it’ll give him a chance to introduce the future king to his loyal subjects, easing the hopefully far off transition between Kings. And doubtless the clean air away from King’s Landing would improve the King’s overall health.”

Petyr was pleased with himself. Every word he said was true. Anyone listening would think of him a loyal Master of Coin. What he left unsaid was that the King’s absence from the capital would give Petyr even more opportunity to divert certain loyalties in a more positive direction, such as Tommen. And see to a few unreliable, but dangerous persons, such as Varys.

Stark looked doubtful. “Robert is unlikely to leave the city unless a sizable entourage follows him.” He stared grimly at the papers standing before him. “He’d likely insist on my presence. And the work will not get done by itself.” 

Petyr put on his sincere mask, another he’d often practiced with Lysa. “You can appoint a deputy, Lord Stark. It’s been done before. I myself would lend aid, if needed. But a chance to improve the Crown’s finances so significantly should be seriously considered.”

Stark nodded slowly. Petyr could see the idea appealed to him. He decided to drop the issue for now. Stark would either act on the idea or not. Badgering him would be counter-productive.

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. It didn’t escape Petyr’s attention that of all the lords in King’s Landing, the one he had the most respect for, the one he considered his strongest ally in the supporting and safeguarding the realm, he’d have to someday kill. It was terribly ironic.

Well, he thought, one problem has been addressed. Time for the next.

“I have other news,” he said hesitantly, careful to wear his troubled mask.

Stark narrowed his eyes. “Is the King in danger?” he demanded.

“No. No, of course not. If I had such news I would have already reported it to Ser Barristan,” he replied, letting a hint of reproach slip into his tone. “My news is of a more personal nature. It involves your daughter’s betrothed.”

Petyr could see Stark age before his eyes. He very much enjoyed the sensation. “Another child, I presume?”

He nodded reluctantly. “I’m afraid so, Lord Stark. His fourth natural child that I know of.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Too many young men forget their duty.”

He wondered what Stark made of his words. He himself had brought a bastard home. Normally, he'd not have judged him harshly for it, but his spies in Winterfell indicated that Cat found it hurtful and thought that the bastard could not be trusted. 

Cat was an intelligent woman. If she despised and distrusted Stark’s bastard, there must be an underlying reason. She would do her duty without complaint, otherwise.

It still dumbfounded him that Stark would betray a woman as pure and as good as Cat. The fool did not understand the precious gift that had fallen into his lap due to his brother’s insanity. He hated him for it.

If he could, he’d present his love with the head of Jon Lannister, the boy who still styled himself Snow. He knew it was too soon for that, but he was keeping a close eye on the bastard in case his love’s fears ever materialized.

“I hope he can put this improper behavior behind him,” he continued. “Otherwise I fear your daughter may be doomed to an unhappy marriage.”

He knew he was pushing boundaries. Stark was a closed off man and did not like discussing family with outsiders. But he thought their long alignment on issues of policy had softened Stark’s view of him. A few liberties might be permitted.

Stark nodded wearily. “It is not a marriage I would have made for her, if Jasper’s proclivities had been known. But oaths have been made and we will not be forsworn.”

Petyr suppressed a smile. He had him. It was amazing what could be accomplished with a few sympathetic words. Still, best to tread softly.

“I understand, my lord. Children are precious and we strive not to disappoint them, while still honoring our commitments.” He hesitated for a moment, purely for effect's sake. “There is an alternative.”

Stark stilled. Hope warred with duty in his eyes. Duty won, of course, but in the meantime Petyr savored the turmoil on display.

“There is nothing to be done,” Stark said grimly, closing off any thinking on the subject in the name of his precious honor. Petyr was always flabbergasted by Stark’s ability to deny others happiness in the name of protecting his honor. That others suffered for his honor never appeared to occur to the man.

“But there is, my lord,” Petyr disagreed, ensuring that his tone remains respectful. “One that serves the interests of the Crown.” That should get his attention, Petyr thought smugly. Stark was like a dog with a bone when it came to duty.

“And that would be?” he asked hesitantly. His face was carved from ice, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of hope.

“Change the betrothal from Jasper to Ronnel. Lady Rowena suggests the two are very friendly. And Ronnel does not engage in the same habits as his brother,” he replied simply.

Stark looked confused, but then again Petyr thought that was his natural state so he could be forgiven. “How does that serve the King’s interests?”

“Because Princess Myrcella could then be wed to Jasper. It would ensure the Vale’s loyalty to the King’s heir. And I suspect that King Robert would not find Jasper’s behavior as offensive as do you and your lady wife,” Petyr left unsaid that King Robert actively encouraged such behavior with Jasper. Stark knew that well enough and did not need to be reminded. “Princess Myrcella is well used to similar behavior from her father. She is more likely to tolerate it from her husband without souring on him. I think she may take after her mother in that regard.”

“Myrcella is only twelve. Sansa is fifteen. Jasper and Sansa are to be wed within the year. Why would Jasper wait to be wed?”

Petyr smiled broadly. “He’ll gain a princess. And if we hold off on the marriage until Myrcella is sixteen, then that gives Lord Jasper another four years to sow his wild oats without dishonoring his wife. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll even get it out of his system by then. But I firmly believe that neither the King nor Lord Jasper would object to the changed arrangement. Everyone benefits.”

He could see Stark turning the matter over in his mind. “I’ll have to discuss it with Catelyn and Sansa first,” he said slowly, but Petyr could see this idea, like the last, appealed to him. 

“Of course, my lord,” Petyr said patiently. “There’s no rush.”

By the time he left Stark’s chambers he was confident he’d achieved both of his objectives. The seeds were planted and would bear fruit. Patience was a virtue, he reminded himself. 

Now to make delivery of his newest gift to the King. One of his customs agents had confiscated several barrels of a particularly potent liqueur from Qarth. It would be a shame if the contraband had been simply destroyed, as the law required, when it could instead be put to a more productive use in destroying the King’s liver.

SJ SJ SJ

AN: Yes, Littlefinger is still evil. In this AU, however, he’s a force for stability and sound fiscal management. For example, the crown is only 1.5 million in debt, not the 6.5 million in canon. I tried to use deep POV. I hope it worked.

AN: Next chapter should be Tyrion’s POV, with Jon/Joy at Castamere.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

AN: This chapter takes place about nine months after chapter 12 and six months after chapter 13. Tyrion is the POV.

SJ SJ SJ

Tyrion had to restrain himself from cursing. Getting into the trench was a lot easier than getting out. It was humiliating.

Jon reached out and steadied the pole ladder. “Now try,” he said, his expression carefully neutral.

Of course he had no trouble climbing out when the ladder was being held in place. The wobble associated with what was simply a round, narrow but sturdy tree with branches trimmed back for rungs vanished. Jon followed behind him, not having any trouble at all, despite no one securing the pole for him and wearing his full armor, minus helmet and shield.

Tyrion decided his dignity demanded that he ignore the assistance. His dignity had been taking a battering these last many months when standing next to Jon. The boy was every inch a young warrior king, while Tyrion was a misshapen dwarf. Joy’s insistence that Jon trim his beard back and grow his hair out only added to the effect.

He was just glad that he wasn’t mistaken for a jester, instead of the boy’s castellan and steward. 

Joy’s castellan and steward, he corrected himself. Jon had been insistent that Joy was the Lady of Castamere. He was merely her husband and was to be styled lord only as a matter of courtesy. He went so far as to ensuring that she occupied the high seat during feasts and when holding court. He merely sat on her right in a noticeably smaller seat, though he made a far more imposing presence. It was really unavoidable considering his height and his habit of always wearing his red tinted armor.

Joy had protested, and was still protesting, not that it did her any good. Jon was developing the admirable talent of hearing only what he wanted to hear. On one occasion, when she had occupied his seat clearly expecting him to take hers, he’d simply picked her up bodily and placed her in the high seat. He then engaged her in conversation as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Still, Tyrion thought that Joy was beginning to secretly enjoy her newfound position. Her protests had been falling off as of late. Now she put up only a token effort, offering Jon the high seat when they entered together. When he declined, as always, he invariably assisted her into her chair, earning him a smile. 

He’d earned far more than that if what they got up to under the table with their hands and feet were any indication. Even Joy’s very noticeable pregnancy had not slowed them down. Tyrion had finally given up on admonishing them about proper decorum and simply draped the high table in banners. If he couldn’t prevent it, he could at least conceal it from view from their sworn swords.

Despite her attempted deference to, and certain infatuation with, Jon, she certainly engaged with the armsmen, servants and smallfolk as if she were the undisputed ruler of Castamere. She only deferred to Jon and Tyrion. And even that was fading, at least in regards to Tyrion.

Tyrion was very proud of his young cousin. She was showing every sign of becoming a magnificent ruler. 

“So this will be a sewer?” Jon asked skeptically. Tyrion saw him eying the deep, wide ditch. It was an impressive trench running between the backs of a long line of brick houses in Safe Haven, or Fleas Landing as the locals insisted on calling it. Once the sewer was poured and roofed, it would be an active alleyway someday, Tyrion hoped.

“Yes, Jon,” he sighed for the twelfth time today. “We dig the trenches, ensure the slight decline is continuous, then brick it and level it out with the liquid rock. We’re already working on diverting a stream to flood the sewer and carry the waste to the sea. Once we’re sure of the flow, we’ll roof the sewer and allow the homes to expand and construct latrines over the waste holes.”

Jon still looked doubtful. “Why? Fleas Landing,” he said, gesturing at the dozens of homes organized in neat rows, while ignoring Tyrion’s flinch at his use of the name, “is still just a village. Surely this is a bit much?”

Tyrion stared at the boy. He sometimes forgot that Jon wasn’t yet eighteen. He was tall and strong, and carried himself so confidently it was easy to forget. 

He’d easily grasped and approved what he’d done to Castamere proper. Much of the same infrastructure there was being placed here. But since here was a mere fishing village in Jon’s mind, he struggled to accept the need. 

Especially as villages and towns without a dedicated sanitation system was the norm in Westeros. What they were doing throughout Castamere was unheard of. He hoped someday it would spread kingdom wide. And if the ancients were right, it would save a lot of lives.

He suppressed his thirteenth sigh of the day. Even if it was only a courtesy title, the boy was Lord of Castamere. It would be bad form to treat him as anything other, not to mention potentially dangerous. Once the boy settled more fully into his role, he might not be as lenient if he perceived himself as being disrespected.

Tyrion had plans. Those plans did not include him being prematurely ousted from his positions as castellan and steward because he couldn’t control his mouth. 

He thought for a moment as to how to persuade the boy. “Follow me, Jon.” He led him away from the current ditch, and future sewer and alley, and into the brick paved main road of the second of Castamere’s someday towns.

He stood in the middle of the road, Jon towering at his side. The main street was much wider than currently necessary, and included gutters that lined each side. It crested slightly in the middle so water would flow off. The side streets and alleys had a similar design, though narrower. Tyrion was building for the future, not the present.

It was so wide that both a wagon and a work party four files wide could move past without jostling them. Someday that space would be needed, Tyrion knew. Or at least hoped.

One of those work parties staggered by in uneven files and out of step. The Unsullied that were tasked with training the work parties to march and maneuver were displeased. They were expressing their displeasure in colorful terms, using broken Common. 

The workers had dazed looks on their faces as they struggled to adjust their steps. New recruits, Tyrion thought. They’d learn. Unlike the Unsullied’s ability to learn to speak Common, he groused to himself, hearing the heavily accented, awkward pejoratives they were throwing about. They finally gave up and began shouting in Valyrian at the recruits as they shoved them into position.

He shook his head in frustration. Nearly three years and they still haven’t assimilated, Tyrion thought sadly. Though they were becoming far more vocal in dealing with the recruits, which was either a small sign of assimilation or their inability to continue hiding their contempt. Or both. Tyrion was unsure.

He’d bought a hundred Unsullied, the smallest unit the Good Masters of Astapor would sell, mostly as a training cadre. The training cadre’s only duty was to teach the fundamentals of marching in various formations while escorting the work parties to and from their assignments. Towards the end of a training cycle, they’d also teach the basics of spear and short sword. 

They were expensive, but they were worth every gold ounce spent. While the nobles of Westeros despised and looked down on the eunuch soldier slaves, and infantry in general, Tyrion did not share that opinion. They were exactly the type of men who’d win a battle with unrelenting discipline no matter the odds, if the history books were any judge. Their unit cohesion and solidarity was unparalleled.

It was also apparently enough to keep them apart. Even when he freed them, so as to not run afoul of Westeros law, they’d refused to use their new found liberty to mingle with non-Unsullied, or even acknowledge they were free. Instead, they’d taken the oaths of fealty he’d requested on behalf of Jon and Joy as a lifetime commitment akin to slavery. This personally pleased him to no end, though he was careful not to give any inkling of that.

It helped that he was initially the only one who could communicate with them when they arrived in Castamere and disembarked. Knowledge of Valyrian was not widespread. He used that to his full advantage in explaining their duties.

Some of his hireling knights thought he was trying to recreate the famed legions of Ghis. They laughed when they thought he couldn’t hear, deep in their cups. They were fools.

He’d had no intention of trying to duplicate the legions from which the Unsullied claimed descent. That would be impossible to accomplish in the mere six months of service that each of the male smallfolk immigrating into Castamere pledged in exchange for homes, and farms or fishing boats. 

But he could have them learn to march, maneuver and learn to obey orders as they moved from one project to the next, with an hour of additional drill conducted each evening. And he did.

The group moving past had shovels, picks and axes over their shoulders. That was as it should be, he noted with satisfaction. 

He was more interested in an army of moderately disciplined builders than he was training an army of Ghisian legionnaires. It wasn’t until the last month of service that they stopped building and learned the basics of using a short sword and spear in formation. Relatively cheap but effective weapons he intended to use as the backbone of the Castamere infantry. 

Those deemed particularly reliable were offered the chance to earn some extra silver by training as crossbowmen for an additional month. They usually jumped at the chance to earn some extra coin before starting their new lives with their wives and sweethearts. He had to rely on his sellswords for that training, as the Unsullied had no skill with crossbows.

When they finally completed their service, they were each given a bronze helmet, a round shield, a padded gambeson dyed red and bearing the coat of arms of Castamere, a spear, and a short sword. When they knelt and gave their oaths, they were granted their homes, and boat or farm as they’d requested before being accepted into service. 

Which is all they were really interested in, Tyrion acknowledged. Each work party pretended to enjoy the competitions against the others and the awards that were granted the victors; extra rations, a day off, even the occasional barrel of ale. But all they really wanted was their farms or boats, and the company of their wives.

He was pleased to grant it to them. In almost three years, several thousand men had been through the Unsullied’s training program. He thought they’d match anything Westeros had to offer as infantry. Other than possibly some of the better sellsword companies.

More importantly, the majority of them were now farming Castamere’s lands. Most of the balance were fishermen located in Fleas Landing. 

He hated that name. No matter how often he insisted that it be called Safe Harbor, the locals insisted on Fleas Landing. To stay connected to their roots, they claimed when he challenged them. His demand that they change the name was met with respectful derision, two attitudes he didn’t think possible to combine. 

It was an unfortunate side effect of the Unsullied’s training that the smallfolk gained a small measure of confidence. They considered themselves both farmers and sworn warriors, and not mere peasants. 

Jon appeared to appreciate that attitude. It reminded him of the people of the North, he claimed. He also didn’t appear to mind the current fishing village being called Fleas Landing.

He thought it obvious that Safe Harbor was an excellent name for attracting merchant vessels. It would be good for trade and help grow the area into a town. By contrast, Fleas Landing was not a name to inspire confidence. It sounded more like a gathering place for pirates and smugglers. It would remain a village forever, he feared, unless something was done.

Jon’s movement roused him from his musing. A second work party going the other direction marched by, this unit far more advanced than their compatriots. Tyrion saw Jon glance at them admiringly, seemingly impressed by their ability to march in lockstep, before he turned back to Tyrion.

Tyrion sighed. He couldn’t help it. “You can’t use them in war, Jon.” In many ways the boy was a typical lord. He saw men that could march in formation and dreamed of conquering the world, though he knew Jon would never act on it. He was far too sensible to give in to mere fantasy.

Jon had the grace to blush slightly. For all of his poise and confidence, and pending fatherhood, he was still largely a boy. “I know,” he groused. “Home defense only. We lack both the old and the young necessary to take over their farms. You’ve reminded me a dozen times.”

“And I’ll remind you a dozen more, if need be.” Tyrion valued his position and did not want to lose it, but he also did not want his efforts to go to waste. Some things bore repeating.

“Well?” Jon asked in a transparent effort to change the subject. “Why all of this,” he pointed at the several open trenches that crossed the town in parallel lines before joining together outside the gate, “for this?” his arm swept around to encompass the several dozen brick houses and miscellaneous buildings which currently occupied Fleas Landing. Safe Harbor, Tyrion corrected himself mentally.

“Because this is now,” he agreed, his arm encompassing the same homes as Jon. “But that’s the future,” he said quietly, pointing to the main gate and then sweeping around in a slow circle, taking in the steadily rising walls and towers, and the largely empty space they encompassed.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the population of Fleas Landing increases?” Jon asked. “I thought building the roads for inland trade was a priority.”

“It’s being worked on, but only within the borders of Castamere,” Tyrion explained again. Roads were already radiating away from Castamere and stretching towards Casterly Rock, Ashemark, the Crag, Sarsfield, and Banefort. But until his father gave his approval, or their lords did, to cross over they would be limited to Castamere’s borders. “Until we can cross over and connect to the River and Gold Roads, we won’t become a regional crossroads. We’ll have to rely on the sea. That means building up the town and harbor of Safe Harbor.” He frowned at Jon. “Not Fleas Landing,” he chastised.

Tyrion knew Jon wasn’t dense. He’d fired off a battery of questions over a variety of issues on a daily basis for months. Whether it was the manufacture of bricks or the liquid rock, the opening and operation of the mines and glassworks, the construction of the proposed brewery and distillery, the layout of farms, mills and future halls for their sworn men, the spacing of towers, the height of walls, and innumerable other subjects, the boy always had questions. 

It was his manner of learning, of understanding the positives and negatives of any course of action. Tyrion appreciated it.

Tyrion pointed to the small flags and bits of string connecting them. Each marked out streets, alleys, future homes, the location of tradesmen and other amenities. “We put in the supporting infrastructure now, so we don’t have to tear buildings down and roads up later. We build the walls, towers and harbor now to project a sense of safety, which attracts merchants and ships. It may not seem it, but it’s less expensive over the long run.”

Other than the brick homes, they’d already constructed a large gatehouse controlling the only entrance large enough to permit horsemen and wagons. Another gatehouse, smaller and able to accommodate pedestrians and carts, controlled the opposite side of the growing wall.

A sept stood to their left, far too large for the current population, though the recently appointed septon was not complaining. It included mosaics of colored stone and golden statutes of the Seven. It was very impressive, Tyrion thought.

Tyrion would privately admit the statues were cast in lead and only plated in gold. The mosaics were made of colored glass, not precious stones. It could not compare to Casterly Rock’s sept. Still, it was enough to overawe the locals and win the loyalty of the septon who saw it as proof of Joy’s devotion.

The septon did complain of the godswood to their right, standing opposite the sept. It centered on a mere sapling of a weirwood obtained from the Green Men on the Isle of Faces. He’d only asked for it to please Jon. He’d expected to be rejected but was pleasantly surprised when they not only agreed but assisted in its planting. It was surrounded by a small copse of immature apple, cherry and maple trees. 

Tyrion looked again at the godswood. He saw a flash of white. “Jon,” he asked cautiously. “Are Ghost and his pups in the godswood?” 

Jon glanced over. “Yes,” he replied, completely unconcerned. 

Tyrion swallowed. The direwolf made him nervous. Thankfully, people and buildings made the wolf and his pups nervous, which Tyrion thought only fair. He’d thought the wolves preferred to spend their time in the newly planted juvenile forests of apple, cherry and maple taking root in Castamere. It was unsettling that they were now also adopting the godswood. 

Tyrion saw Jon raise an eyebrow. “Not nervous, are you?” he asked mischievously. 

Tyrion scowled and didn’t answer. No matter what Jon claimed, Tyrion knew wolves couldn’t be domesticated. Eventually, they’d attack someone. It was in their nature. Tyrion did not intend for that someone to be him, cautiously eying the godswood.

Even if the locals didn’t appreciate the godswood, they could still enjoy it as a small park within the walls of their town. At least when the wolves weren’t occupying it, Tyrion amended. 

The septon accepted the park justification grudgingly. Tyrion was sure the golden light cascading from his statues reassured him of the purity of Lady Castamere’s faith, even if her lord husband’s left something to be desired.

Tyrion saw Jon eyeing the manse which stood behind the godswood. The immature trees surrounding the two story structure only partially concealed it from the rest of the town. 

“Tyrion, assuming we need to build a port,” Jon said, his voice thick with doubt, “why don’t we convert the manse to a port office? It’s not like Joy and I will ever use it.”

“The people need to see you and Joy from time to time,” Tyrion replied calmly. “You need an official residence if this truly grows to become a town. The manse needs to stay.” 

Tyrion didn’t think he should mention that he had every intention of abandoning the castle and occupying the manse once Safe Harbor grew large enough to support a brothel. Those plans would only distress Jon.

Jon and Joy had been insistent that no brothels would be allowed within the Den, as they’d taken to calling the area enclosed between the castle’s two curtain walls. It was the first of Castamere’s two intended towns. Tyrion thought the Den would be a dreary place to live once fully built out. 

Though Castamere’s septon thought Jon a heathen, he’d approved the ordinance. He took it as evidence that Jon could be converted to the Faith of the Seven. Tyrion had greatly enjoyed watching Jon’s ever increasing desperate efforts to avoid being cornered by the man. It served him right, Tyrion thought, for ruining the fun of others, as he eyed the status of construction. 

Jon doubtfully agreed with him about the need for the manse. Despite his questions and doubts, Jon almost always deferred to Tyrion. More so than Joy, recently. Tyrion smiled in appreciation at his young lord as they moved to inspect the rest of the village.

The gates, manse and sept were all complete and constructed of brick faced liquid rock. As were the walls and towers enclosing the town, though they were still in process of being built. 

Unlike Castamere, however, the gatehouses were not built of cut stone. Tyrion intended to correct that someday, to Jon’s great approval. 

It was one of the many small economies that he’d begrudgingly put in place that favored Castamere and the Den over Safe Harbor. Though his father had cut off funding over a year past, Castamere possessed great wealth and it could fund much of what he intended. The difficulty was logistics and manpower. Some things just had to wait.

Currently, the only other buildings of note within the borders of the town was a small tavern, a baker, a cooper, and a smithy. The smithy worked in both bronze and iron. Tyrion owned the tavern, as well as the two at the Den, though he was careful not to advertise that fact. Like the houses, they were all built of brick.

Outside Safe Harbor’s walls stood a brickyard, including two kilns, a shipyard and a mill. The shipyard was designed to craft small fishing vessels, though Tyrion dreamed of expanding it someday. The mill served the comparatively few farms that surrounded the town. All stood in close proximity to the three piers that Tyrion had constructed, which were far too many for the number of boats currently calling the harbor home.

He fully intended to add wharves and quays when the harbor was fully completed. Safe Harbor would someday become a small port. If the infrastructure existed, the ships would come.

Work parties were outside the walls, pouring liquid rock into shaped, reusable frames. They were creating uniform rectangular blocks. Hundreds were scattered about, drying in the sun. Many thousands would be required to fully construct the harbor intended by Tyrion. It would not match Lannisport in size, but it would be more than sufficient for their purposes.

They were inspecting the dry moat when a horseman arrived. It was Tristram. He was covered in sweat and dust, the horse near foaming at the mouth.

“Jon,” he cried, near frantic. “The maester says the babes are coming early.”

Jon and Tyrion both froze for a second, and then Jon burst into action. He pulled himself bodily out of the moment and ran for their horses stabled at the main gate. Tyrion looked sourly at the pole ladder.

“Tristram!” he called out, having to raise his voice to be heard over the man’s gasping for breath. “Make sure the guard follows Jon. You and I will follow behind.”

Someone must have heard him as he could hear the hoofbeats of a large number of horses striking the brick and stone road. He couldn’t be sure as he was still stuck in this gods forsaken moat. He glared at the pole. 

The howl of the two juvenile wolves running by confirmed his suspicions. Their sire, Ghost, never howled. His white and grey cubs with Lady did not suffer from that limitation. They were frequently vocal when they were on the move.

Eventually, Tristram returned looking abashed and helped him out. Tyrion’s horse and special saddle remained at the stable, thank the gods. 

After acquiring a new horse for Tristram, they followed behind. Tyrion made no effort to keep pace with Jon and his party, who were already well out of view.

“What happened?” he asked simply, interrupting yet another of Tristram’s long pulls on a flagon of his favorite Dornish Red.

“Lady Joy and her handmaiden, Gwenys, were in the solar. Gwenys came out screaming that her water broke.” Tyrion noted that the boy’s tone acquired a note of longing when he said Gwenys’ name. He’d long suspected that they were more than just acquaintances and was pleased to find some tangential support for that belief.

“And,” he prodded. He ignored the boy taking another deep drink of his wine. To stifle his inner protest, he focused on inspecting the tree line.

After the fall of the Reynes and their sworn men, the smallfolk had abandoned the area. Without a liege or fortress, they had migrated to Ashefork, the Banefort and other nearby lords seeking protection. Those same lords had wasted no time denuding Castamere of its forests, turning lumber not their own into coin to be spent.

When he became steward, Tyrion had promptly replanted. He’d used a full third of the women in his work force until the planting was complete. He’d focused on apple, cherry and maple trees. Not only could they be converted to good quality lumber, but they were cold resistant and produced fruit and syrup which could be sold. 

If he was to have a forest, it would be a productive forest. One that wouldn’t die when the snows fell. Though it would still be years before the fruit trees bore fruit. Longer for the maple to provide its sap.

“. . . and Maester Samwell said the babes were coming and sent me to collect Jon,” the boy concluded.

Tyrion stopped inspecting the tree line to make sure it had not encroached within a bow shot from the road. “Babes?” he asked, concerned. 

Samwell Tarly had been a young volunteer to the Night Watch when Tyrion first met him four years ago. He’d been impressed with his intelligence and detected a kindred spirit. Both had no interest in war. Both were despised by their fathers. Out of a sense of fellow feeling, he’d arranged for the boy to attend the Citadel. Over three years later, he’d forged almost two dozen links in his chain, an impressive performance. 

Tyrion had spent a good amount of coin to ensure that he was assigned as the maester to Castamere. Samwell was a talent and Tyrion needed able lieutenants. 

Sam had opined that Joy was likely to deliver twins when he’d arrived from the Citadel more than three moons prior. Tyrion hadn’t doubted him, considering how large and how quickly his cousin's belly had grown, but this was the first he had confirmation.

Tyrion reassured himself. On Genna’s recommendation, he’d employed the best midwives in Lannisport to ensure that the delivery was as safe as possible. The senior midwife had been confident, stating that Joy had good hips for having children. She’d be fine, he hoped.

He suppressed the urge to pray. He’d lost faith years ago. Besides, Jon was likely praying enough for both of them.

On horseback, the distance between Castamere and Fleas Landing was about two hours. Tyrion and Tristram saw the red walls of Castamere come into view just under that. The alternating bronze wolf and lion heads he’d affixed to Castamere’s merlons glinted in the setting sun. It was one of his few indulgences. 

The smaller two gatehouses were closed, as the traffic did not yet exist to justify their use, but the main gatehouse’s drawbridge was down. The moat was wet and seemed to be holding water. He was pleased.

Tyrion had completed three circuits of underground pillars formed of liquid rock to provide stability to the walls and prevent undermining. The first was placed under and in front of the first curtain wall. The second and third were on either side of the moat that guarded the approach to the second curtain wall.

A strong guard watched their approach but recognized them. They didn’t stop them from riding through. 

The workers present at both sides of the gate did not look up, their attention fixed on framing the next portion of the talus in the space between the outer curtain and the moat. A talus had already been constructed around the entirety of the inner curtain wall.

Workers and shop owners greeted Tyrion as he rode through toward the inner keep, doffing their caps as he passed. He pretended not to hear their mutterings of “The Wizard” directed his way. Magic was superstitious nonsense. You’d think they’d never opened a book, he grumbled inwardly.

The Den was placed between the first and second curtain wall and shared many similarities with Fleas Landing. It also had some major additions. One of those was an aqueduct system coming off the mountain, though it was not complete. 

While both Castamere and Fleas Landing had plenty of wells, Tyrion was very partial to running water. He looked forward to the day. 

Then he remembered he’d be occupying Fleas Landing. He groaned. Something else to add to the to do list.

As he worked his way up the switchback path, and then to the inner wall’s gatehouse, he was stopped. The Unsullied he’d assigned as Joy’s personal guard had chosen to occupy the inner gatehouse, while their compatriots occupied barracks on either side when they were in town. They made it a point to stop everyone, even if they knew you, except for Joy and Jon. 

He found it frustrating, even though he complied. Once he’d provided the proper codes, another one of the rules they’d insisted on, in case he was a Faceless Man he presumed, rolling his eyes, he passed the inner curtain wall.

As he worked his way across the inner courtyard, he saw the stone masons were working on smoothing the mountain face despite the late hour. Tyrion resolved to see that they were given a bonus. It was critical work. 

To prevent a second Rains of Castamere, he’d pierced the mountain’s face in a number of places. He’d put in channels to capture water and guide it out of the mountain. When he tested it by using the same stream his father used, he had been proud to see it worked. Literally dozens of pipes spit water out of the sides of the mountain. 

As another contingency, he’d opened up the mountain with balconies, in case the pipes became overburdened. He hadn’t tested that precaution for fear that he’d have to spend months getting the interior of the mountain dry again.

Still he was confident that the interior of the mountain was no longer susceptible to dangerous flooding. But it did make the interior vulnerable to climbers. 

He’d been shocked to hear that some climbers could manage a two hundred foot climb, the height of the lowest balcony but not the lowest drainage pipe. Jaime had assured him the wildlings did it all the time. So to prevent that he wanted the rock made as smooth as possible. 

So stonemasons worked to smooth the surface. Scaffolding went up from the ground. Scaffolding was also lowered from the balconies via ropes. That task was generally delegated to the younger, less wise, masons. Tyronn soothed his conscience by paying extra to compensate for the hazard.

As added protection, each balcony could be closed off with heavy wooden doors and a portcullis. He kept the portcullises down as a general rule. He didn’t want any overly drunk members of the garrison to take a fatal dive off a balcony. He did keep the doors open as the garrison seemed to prefer the ability to see the sky.

When he arrived, there was a lot of activity around Joy’s apartments. Joy had initially preferred the depths of the mountain as it reminded her somewhat of Casterly Rock. She’d changed her mind as soon as she considered the danger to a toddler walking in the vicinity of a balcony. 

Instead, she’d demanded apartments in the inner courtyard. Tyrion had protested as they were not as secure, even if he admitted they had the relative advantage of ease of access. She’d insisted and he’d given in. 

It wasn’t as if he had a choice. She was the Lady of Castamere. 

Lyra was standing guard outside the bedroom chamber doors. She looked bored. He could hear indistinct noises behind the heavy door.

“How are things?” he asked, trying to decipher the sounds behind the door. 

Lyra rolled her eyes at his question. “Not you too?” she asked scornfully. “She’s having a baby. Women have been doing so since the gods created people. Everyone around here is running about as if it’s the end of days.” She snorted. “You might as well go in. Jon’s in there already.”

Tyrion was surprised. That wasn’t normally done. “They allowed him into the birthing chamber?” 

She nodded in the affirmative, leaning on her spear. “My da delivered me and my sisters. Can’t see what the fuss is about. The midwives did try to exclude Jon, but Lady Joy threw a fit. Claimed that if the maester was allowed in, then her husband should be as well. The women didn’t give way until Lady Joy threatened to call the Unsullied and have them whipped through the streets. They caved fast enough then.”

He stored this information away. He always suspected that Joy had a bit of temper but she did a good job hiding it. Childbirth was apparently enough to lower her inhibitions. 

He wasn’t sure that whipping midwives was the best use for the twenty Unsullied he’d assigned as part of her personal guard, but he resolved to see the bright side. In times of stress, she remembered she always had twenty fanatical guards to call on.

He put all of that out of his thoughts as he entered the chamber. He did so with some trepidation. His fear was misplaced. 

Joy was laying propped up in her bed, surrounded by cushions, her face pale. Maester Samwell was standing on one side, preparing some concoction. The three midwives were gathering bloodied sheets, clothes, and a copper basin filled with water, blood and other things Tyrion did not care to identify with any specificity. 

Despite his cousin’s obvious weakness, she was positively glowing. She held a dark haired infant cradled in her arms as it nursed contentedly at her breast. It looked smaller than normal to Tyrion, but he was no expert. She smiled when he entered. 

“Cousin,” she half whispered. “Two boys.” She moved awkwardly so he could have a view of his newest Lannister cousin. “Gerion,” she said in a delighted tone, “meet your cousin Tyrion.”

Tyrion smiled at her as he registered that one of her children had been named after her father. It was fitting, he thought. Gerion had been his favorite uncle and he missed him. The small thing could maybe grow and replace the void his absence had created in their lives.

Jon was seated to her side, looking simultaneously shocked and proud. He was holding another smaller than average infant. This one was frantically moving its mouth in a vain effort to extract milk from Jon’s smallest finger. Jon was teasing him with it, buying Joy time to feed the other. 

Tyrion resolved to look for wet nurses. The look on Joy’s face did not bode well for her actually using them, but it would be good to have them on hand, just in case.

Jon spoke, his tone sounding exhausted which caused Tyrion to raise a questioning eyebrow. Joy had done all the real work. “This is your cousin, Tygett.” 

He was surprised that they named both their other children after Lannisters. He’d have thought that they’d have selected at least one northern name. But Tygett was a good choice, named after another of his father’s dead brothers. 

Tygett had been good to him, so he could hardly object. He was also the brother most likely to challenge his father and the brother who was most similar to Jaime in martial prowess. 

Then Tyrion’s eyes settled on the boy’s hair. He only had faint whisps compared to the thick mop his twin had, but it was pure silver-blond. Tyrion felt his stomach drop.

He took a breath and steadied himself. Jon did not appear to have reacted yet, which was good. Maybe he’d been half prepared with all the rumors circulating about the identity of his mother.

“Well, it appears that you have proof that your mother was Ashara Dayne,” he offered quietly. He kept the midwives in the corner of his eye to judge their reactions. While Ashara had been dark haired, many Daynes had the same silver hair and purple eyes as the Targaryens. “No need to pester Lord Stark more about it.”

Jon nodded, half listening. His gaze was intently focused on his small son, half awed. 

Better, as far as Tyrion was concerned, was that the midwives appeared to be listening intently. He was confident the story would be around Castamere by sunrise and the Westerlands by the week’s end. Which was far preferable than the boy being compared to the silver haired Prince Rhaegar.

“Maester Samwell, can I trouble you to escort me to the ravenry? The joyous tidings need to be shared.” And Lord Stark not so subtly warned to not contradict the story that Ashara Dayne was Jon’s mother, he mentally added.

“Of course, Lord Tyrion,” Sam nearly stuttered, even as he jumped at the chance to leave the room. For the first time, he noticed that the heavy set boy looked ready to faint. He must not like blood, Tyrion noted curiously.

As Tyrion followed Sam, he wondered as to the twins eye colors. Both boys’ eyes had been shut tight, so Tyrion could not tell whether they were grey, green or purple. 

He felt a burden lift from his shoulders as he saw one of the midwives whispering excitedly with some of the cooks. And it didn’t really matter, as he smiled in satisfaction.

SJ SJ SJ

AN: Unsullied are very expensive. But when Dany was negotiating to buy them, we had some data about how much they were worth in units of 100 and 1000. Tyrion purchased a company of 100. Joy can afford it. She has gold mines. 

AN: A baby’s eye color will change over the first year of life, so what they are now doesn’t really matter. Gerion is dark haired, Tygett silver-blond. Both either have or will eventually have Lannister green eyes. Which may bode well when dealing with Tywin. Both are small, as is normal for twins, I think, but they’ll grow and make up for lost time.

AN: Next chapter is the first Highgarden chapter. Jaime is the POV. Also now that Jon has an heir and a spare, Tywin can confidently move against him. Fun times.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Song of Ice and Fire series. ASoIaF is owned by George R.R. Martin. This fanfiction is for writing practice only and no money will be made. 

IMPORTANT! Please read. Spoilers ahead.

This is a summary of the next several chapters. Skip it if you don’t want to know. I will update Ser Jon, but at my pace. I hope some of you will wait for the actual chapters, but no skin off my back if you don’t. 

For those who are PMing me, demanding that I post faster or asking for the plot, I’m doing this for fun. I have a family, a job and many other interests. For those who are suggesting that I’ve lost the plot, you are wrong. I know where the story is going. 

I’m providing the summary of the next several chapters below for those too impatient to wait. I won’t respond to other requests for information.

If it makes you feel any better, my daughter (who is also my proofreader) is badgering me also, but she has the complete outline so is less vocal.

SPOILERS

SPOILERS

SPOILERS

SPOILERS

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…

You’ve been warned.

SJ SJ SJ

The small plot for the next chapter is Jaime, Jon, Gregor Clegane and other Westerland knights compete in a Highgarden tourney at the command of Lord Tywin. The tournament is to celebrate the marriage between Tyene Sand and Willas Tyrell.

The Tyrells are unhappy, for the most part. But Willas claims he dishonored her and got her pregnant (true, but encouraged by her father as part of a scheme to make her Lady of Highgarden). Willas insisted he had to marry her, which he did without his family knowing. The Tyrells reluctantly accepted it.

Willas and Oberyn orchestrated the marriage to bury the hatchet between the two houses. Willas’ personal motivation is peace and a secure succession. Oberyn’s personal motivation (as is Tyene’s) is gaining more allies to tear down the Lannisters and Baratheons.

During the melee Gregor tries to murder Jon, on Tywin’s orders (a simple tourney accident). Brienne intervenes. Jon cripples Gregor, taking his leg at the knee. Jaime and Brienne met. Jaime convinces her to take service with Jon. Jaime and Brienne begin their first sparring session.

The overarching plot for the next few chapters begins at Highgarden also. Ned stays behind at KL, but encourages Robert to attend the tourney, with a strong guard, in an effort to mend fences with Dorne. 

There, Robert notices Jon, who won the melee. Later that night, Jon is encouraged to play the harp at the celebratory feast. Robert begins to see similarities between Jon and Rhaegar, but doesn’t or won’t believe it. Despite this, he can’t get it out of his mind. He becomes stressed, angry and gets very drunk. 

Joffrey, Margaery, Renly and Loras are also at the feast. Margaery is flirting with Joffrey, her betrothed. Robert notices. He is both proud of Joffrey and somewhat jealous of his more handsome and fit son. 

Renly and Loras vanish into the gardens. Robert is curious whether the rumors about the two are true. He also wants to lash out at someone, so he follows them. 

Margaery is worried about her brother being discovered, so follows Robert. She hopes to delay him to give the servants time to warn Renly/Loras. She intercepts him, kneels, and begs permission to wed Renly as part of her effort to delay Robert. 

This enrages Joffrey, who had followed behind her but stayed out of sight. He says nothing hoping to hear more. 

Robert becomes aroused at the view and tries to clumsily seduce her. He gets more forceful as he’s not used to ‘no’ and thinks it’s an act, and she’s just playing hard to get. Joffrey doesn’t intervene as he’s angry, and now thinks she’s just a whore. 

She screams when he lifts her dress and tears at her under clothes. Loras hears her and intervenes. He seriously wounds Robert. Ser Barristan kills Loras in front of Renly and Margaery. 

The Kingsguard hustle Robert away as the Tyrell troops begin attacking Royal troops. Dornish troops join in. Oberyn kills Joffrey and his guard. The Royal troops break away and retire in good order towards Storm’s End. 

They reach Storm’s End seeking a place where the king can be safely medically treated. But Renly had sent ravens ahead, so the castellan refuses to open the gates, citing Renly’s orders. Robert is delirious with pain, ranting about dragonspawn and traitors. The Royal troops, now led by Ser Barristan, seize ships and sail back to King’s Landing.

While this is going on, Ned is taken to the quarters of a servant who has hung himself. It is a scene staged by Varys. A note is discovered claiming that Robert’s two younger children are Petyr’s, together with letters exchanged between Lysa and Petyr (which Lysa had assured Petyr she’d destroyed after reading, but kept for sentimental reasons). 

Petyr, Lysa and Myrcella flee KL for the Vale, as Myrcella is now betrothed to Jasper. Tommen voluntarily stays behind to plead their case, believing the letters forgeries (they aren’t) and the suicide/note a plot (it is). He is briefly imprisoned in his personal quarters. (He is Cat’s nephew and Ned so treats him with kid gloves).

Stannis begins to send ravens accusing Lysa of infidelity and, in light of Joffrey’s death, declares himself King. Renly does similar.

Robert’s wound is infected. He is delirious. When Ned informs him of Lysa’s infidelity, he calls him a liar. He accuses Ned of hiding dragonspawn, his bastard. Ned remains silent in the face of the accusation. Robert dismisses Ned’s evidence, confirms Tommen as his heir, appoints Ser Barristan as Tommen’s regent, orders him to see him crowned, and dies. 

Barristan releases Tommen and imprisons Ned. He orders that Ned be put on trial for treason. Under public questioning from Varys, Ned continues to insist that whether Tommen and Myrcella are bastards be investigated, but admits that Jon is Rhaegar’s (to Varys’ surprise). Tommen burns the letters relied upon by Ned, calling them obvious fakes. Ned is found guilty. 

Tommen demands Ned’s head but, if he recants, he’ll be allowed to take the Black. Ned doesn’t believe the threat. He refuses to recant and is executed.

Tommen offers 20,000 gold dragons as a reward for anyone who brings him Jon Lannister’s head, with 10,000 offered for each of his children. Rumors begin to circulate about Jon’s true parentage. 

Jaime admits the rumors are true to Tywin. He threatens Tywin that he’ll take the Black the moment Jon is killed/harmed, regardless of reason. 

Tywin realizes he means it. He acts to suppress the rumors in the Westerlands. He asserts that Jon is Ned and Ashara Dayne’s son to Stannis, pointing out that he’s the last person who would harbor a Targaryen. He implies Tommen threatened torture to get Ned to confess, and trumped up the charge to have another reason to kill Ned, while dividing his enemies. Stannis provisionally accepts the explanation. 

As to Jon, Tyrion points out to him that the entire kingdom would turn against him, if true. Joy (who is pregnant again) and his children would all be killed. Since he doesn’t know what is true and what is false, Jon chooses to believe he’s a Stark/Dayne bastard. He denies he’s a Targaryen to protect his family.

The War of Six Kings begins. The initial sides are: 1) Tommen- Vale, Crownlands (some reluctantly, as they are beginning to look at Jon), and a divided Riverlands (some, such as House Darry, are beginning to look at Jon); 2) Stannis- Dragonstone (with Royal Fleet) and the Westerlands; 3) Renly- Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne (who, for reasons known only to Doran, only sends a small force); 4) Robb- the North, and some of the Riverlands, including the Freys; 5) Balon Greyjoy and the Iron Islands; 6) Jon- holed up in Castamere, with only the beginnings of support he doesn’t want.

As to the Freys, Robb refuses his mother's offer that she negotiate for him. He doesn’t want to be seen as dependent on her. He decides to negotiate directly with Walder just outside the Twins. Catelyn doesn’t like it, but advises Robb to be ruthless, to be a true lord, to kill the boy and let the man be born (stolen from Aemon’s advice to Jon in canon). 

Walder has many demands. Robb agrees to betroth Rickon to a Frey daughter, and to take several Frey squires, who will be parceled out among his lords. It isn’t good enough, so Roose Bolton (hearing of the weight in silver dowry he’d receive) and Wendel Manderly (out of loyalty) offer to take Frey wives as well. Robb offers several vacant Northern holdfasts to those Frey the sons who perform well as Northern squires. 

Walder is still not satisfied. He acknowledges Robb’s explanation that he can’t accept a Frey wife for himself or Arya, as there is a need for more marriage alliances if they are to survive. But he doesn’t think a sufficient toll has been paid, considering the risk his House is subjecting themselves too. They argue. 

They break the impasse when, to Catelyn’s horror, he offers his recently widowed mother to the recently widowed Walder, after a suitable mourning period. Walder gleefully accepts. The Northern army crosses with Frey support.


End file.
